


Stranger to Stranger

by CeciliaDuncan



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Drama, Drama & Romance, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeciliaDuncan/pseuds/CeciliaDuncan
Summary: What if they didn’t meet as teenagers, but at a later time? Could you imagine them falling in love again?





	1. Prologue

A dreamy note floated lazily away crossing the street and into the branches of an overhanging tree. It was high and clear and you would guess it had come from an angel, or more in the realm of every-day-life, from a girl. The note was followed by a whole range of notes neatly building a melody, undisturbed finding a way to heaven. Had it been a film, the birds would have chirped in, the sun would have reappeared from behind a cloud and flowers would spontaneously bloom. Queens was not a fairy tale landscape and the dirty grey tarmac reflected the livelihood of a suburban area. It did not stop the young boy from singing out loud. Nor did the passer-by’s first giving him weird looks, but smiles broke through the confused frowns. It was not hard to be captivated; the young boy’s voice was trained and the melodies escaping his pink mouth were simply another exercise.

Art’s ears perked up with delight at the possibility of producing such clear sounds and he pushed his voice higher to see how far he could stretch it. He let the notes fall in rhythm with his footsteps as he went back to the start of the song. He didn’t really notice the other people on the street or the glances and the smiles. Yes, he knew the delight of enthusiastic applause and seeing people moved to tears by his song. It was addictive. There was bliss in singing, but Art also felt loneliness. He wasn’t sure what he was missing, what he was craving.

Art started singing when he was five. Hardly surprising, his parents sang a lot, his mother sang almost all the time. Art liked that; Art did that too, singing to himself all the time. It helped he found it so easy to control his voice and make it soar. Their family evening consisted out of singing harmonies to a collection of songs, popular and traditional. They also had a tape machine on which they would record their harmonies and then play with the sounds a bit by turning the knobs, slowing it down making them sound like giants, or the other way making them sound like mice. A lot of fun was to be had with the tape machine.  
Art’s two brothers sang too, of course, but Art stood out, in every single way. It was not only his remarkable shock of blond, afro curled hair, but also his sparkling blue eyes and of course his clear voice. His brothers weren’t bad at singing; Art was just the best at it.

Even though they encouraged their sons to sing, Art’s idea of making it as a professional singer was not as much appreciated and his mother would often turn off the tape machine and send Art up to his bedroom to do his homework. She shouldn’t worry; Art was not going to let his schoolwork suffer. Besides, school was easy; it didn’t require that much of Art’s time. He loved doing maths; it was dependable and precise, like Art himself. Art loved the challenges of solving maths problems. To him it was like going on an adventure, mapping out another reality. For instance, he kept a close track of the baseball results, wrote them down and calculated opportunities, advances and fall backs for teams. He even dared to go as far as predicting who would win the league that year, based on his calculations taking in account fitness of the men and matches played. He could go on about how he came to his conclusions, finishing long after the last attentive eyes had glazed over.

If Art wasn’t singing, he was quietly dreaming. Dreaming about the adventures he was going to have. About singing everywhere outside of Queens, of getting his song on the radio and people saying to each other: “I heard that song on the radio. The singer is really good.” He dreamt of being in a band and singing their own original songs in perfect harmony. Art could write the harmonies, he knew he could, and teach them to the other members of the band. Their voices would stun audiences and every performance was closed with loud applause and cheering. They would do an encore, maybe put in some cover songs, bow and then retire to their dressing rooms, exhausted but content.  
Sitting in the middle of his bedroom on the floor, legs crossed, those scenes went through his head. He would start humming to the songs his imaginary band was singing. His imagination might run away with him, but in the end he would wake up to a world where he was just sitting in the middle of his bedroom with no-one to share his dream with.

Artie sang in the Synagogue on his mother’s suggestion. He sang in talent shows encouraged by, once again his mother, and his brothers. His father would usually frown and tell him as long his schoolwork wasn’t suffering under it…. Especially the talent shows opened up a world to sing to. Audiences could be varied and Art would be able to sing the popular tunes. He specialized in ballads; he could bring grownup men to tears singing those. All the appeal of singing were still true, but with his young sensitive mind an interest in girls was also developing and there were loads of girls in those audiences.

 

In one of these audiences sat a young boy, dark, quiet, with piercing melancholic eyes. He was small and most of the time he couldn’t see what was happening on the stage. Talent shows always were a mixed bag of disappointing renditions of covers interfered with the occasional surprise of talent. Part of the appeal of talent shows was the infusion of dreams it installed in the young boy. He wished he could sing or play some instrument. His parents once tried to put him on piano lessons, but it bored the young boy and soon he gave up handing his piano teacher over to his younger brother who seemed to have an aptitude for playing the piano. His parents were a bit disappointed, especially his musician father. Fortunately, the boy was a good scholar scoring high in school. They had high hopes for him, and it fed his father’s hopes he would become a teacher.

Paul was getting bored with the mediocre singers crooning their way through popsongs. The rest of the audience too seemed to be patiently and politely sitting through it. Paul played with his tickets while his eyes scanned the flog of girls near the stage. What was going on? Why were they so excited? Some were really cute. It must be for some performing boy, Paul figured his dreams once more taking flight. Imagine he was that boy, the girls would adore him, think he was cute, they would fall in flogs at his feet. It was better than becoming a teacher. Maybe Paul should have another stab at the piano, or better another instrument, like a guitar. Paul had no idea if he could master the guitar or sing; he never tried either. Surely he must have some feel for music; his father was a musician and his younger brother inherited some if not all of that talent; it must be in Paul’s blood as well. Paul lazily toyed with the idea while the flog of girls was moving towards the stage, an exited buzz rising from the crowd. Paul was still dreaming, not paying attention, when the next contestant was announced:

“The golden boy with the golden voice. Let’s hear it for him!” The audience just kept to politely applauding, except for some girls who were cheering enthusiastically.

Paul only half noticed it, but his attention snapped to the stage when the boy started to sing. The rest of the audience seemed to hold their breath to hear the first clear soaring notes before erupting into wild applause. Paul now completely awake from his daydreaming sat up trying to see the stage. He caught glimpses of a blue shirt, blond curls and the most lively blue eyes Paul had ever seen. That combined with the almost girlish high voice was quite enchanting. To Paul it became clear why those girls had been so eager to be close to the stage. He wondered once again if he could sing; he should really give it a try.

For about 3 minutes there was almost no sound other than the boy’s voice. It was as if everyone was holding their breath. Paul sure noticed he was rather breathless when the boy finally finished the song. The audience leapt to their feet, another wild applause and more cheering from mainly girls. Paul was lost among the sea of people towering over him. He stood on his tiptoes trying to catch another glimpse, but there was no way. He could hear the host’s voice thanking Artie Garfunkel for that beautiful rendition of “They’re trying to tell us we’re too young” and the clapping slowly died down as most people around Paul sat down. Paul intentionally didn’t sit down, hoping to catch a last glimps of the boy. He could only see the boy’s back and the blond halo of curls disappearing back stage. One of the girls grabbed Paul’s elbow pulling him down into his seat: “Wasn’t he great!? He is so handsome!” Paul nodded quietly noticing the glow across the girl’s face. Paul decided right then right there, he was going to ask a guitar for his birthday and teach himself to play and sing.

Paul, always a quiet introverted boy, walked home alone, the afternoon and specifically that boy, mulling through his head. Artie Garfunkel, with the golden voice, attracted all the girls. Paul was impressed and intrigued. There was something else about that boy, something beside his voice and pretty face; Paul couldn’t put a finger on it. Never before had anyone struck him like Artie Garfunkel. Paul let the name bounce through his mind; it filled him with a warm excitement. Had he been older, he might have worried if he was gay, but his 9 year old mind didn’t recognize that funny fuzzy feeling as being in love. Maybe he wasn’t anyway, and he simply recognized Artie as a gateway to girls, to success and adoration. One thing Paul knew for sure; they had to meet. That evening in his scrapbook (of baseball heroes), Paul wrote Artie’s name, his cheeks burning in the process. Making sure no-one would ever discover, he carefully stuck the pages together, only leaving the corners loose so he could pull the pages apart. “Artie Garfunkel”. Paul knew there was an adventure to be had.

A few months later Paul celebrated his 10th aniiversary and got his first guitar from his dad. His father showed him his first chords and Paul set out to practice. It wasn’t as easy as guitar players made it look and Paul had trouble getting the picking right. His younger brother, not only a prodigy on the piano, sat watching Paul cringing and pulling faces as Pauls struggled through the chords. He couldn’t help yelling at Paul from time to time: “You’re doing it wrong!” Paul frustrated took his guitar to his bedroom to practice in quiet and peace, but his incessant picking came to an early end when a string broke. Discouraged Paul put the guitar aside.

 

Paul’s father assured him breaking a string wasn’t a big deal; it happened to him from time to time. He put a new string on Paul’s guitar, but Paul had lost some of his zest for playing. Not that he wasn’t practicing at all; he just let his slow progress and his brother’s sighing and groaning discourage him. Now and then he would open his scrapbook and pealed the pages apart to stare at the name for a while. He wasn’t good enough to play and sing with Artie. Sometimes it was a reason to practice even harder, but more often than not, it made Paul give up altogether. His plans were interrupted in the summer of 1953 when his parents decided to move back to New Jersey to be closer to family. That would take him away from Artie and shut oppertunties of a friendship down completely. It was reason enough for Paul to pack up his guitar and not take it out for a year or two.


	2. a New Era

Paul slung the guitar case on his back, grabbed his heavy suitcase and followed his new friend overseas towards a small apartment block. The brick walls were as grey and wet as the streets and it all looked dirty and old, as if the house could tumble down on them any moment. The front door was friendly enough, mainly because it was open and a hot steam of freshly cooked food wafted out on the street. Some youngsters, boys and girls, all of Paul’s age, were hanging around it blocking the entrance. It being the sixties and with flower power in charge the group of youth were friendly and smoking some interesting substances by the smell of it. Paul nodded at them as he inched passed following the shadowy figure into the house. Inside it was dark and the smell of food grew stronger making Paul realize how hungry he really was. Living on the streets of Paris was all romantic, for a little while, till the summer nights grew colder and wetter and Paul could no longer deny the rumble coming from his stomach.

“You want something to eat?” a friendly girl with too much make-up on asked, her English with a thick French accent.

Paul nodded eagerly. It seemed all the girls present in the house were now in the room with Paul offering him food, drinks, cigarettes of all kinds and other forms of enjoyment. News travelled fast; it seemed at least a quarter of the French female population now knew there was another American in their midst. Paul didn’t complain, as a matter of fact, with his mind now dulled to the street life of a poor travelling musician, he wasn’t used to this much attention and the overload of things to consume. Not to say he was rejecting offers, there were too many to accept them all. To be fair, certain offers Paul pretended he hadn’t heard. Others like the food, drinks and cigarettes Paul gratefully accepted. 

Paul spent the evening in a dozy mood, beit from the amount of food and drinks or maybe someone slipped him one of these other cigarettes. Whatever the case may be, it left Paul sleepy and he didn’t move from where he sat down when he came in, the whole evening. At some point some people picked up instruments and there was music. Even though Paul’s guitar was right next to him, he didn’t join in; his fingers felt thick and inflexible, not suitable for playing and he was still too shy to join in with the singing. The general atmosphere, his full stomach and his tired legs and feet soon carried him into a dreamlike reality rocking him to sleep. Sheltered by other spectators, his sleeping form wasn’t noticed by the blond afro-curled boy who sang that night. Neither did Paul hear, let alone recognize, those clear tones. By the time Paul woke up, the music had stopped and the musicians had gone to bed, including the singer.

Paul left the house and met up with the only proper English speaking person he had met in Paris so far. He was a Brit going by the name of David McCausland. It was nice to speak English, especially since Paul was not exactly fluent in French. Over breakfast they discussed their travels so far and their plans for the rest of the summer. David invited Paul to come over to England; he could stay with David and his parents. The invitation was attractive, but Paul also knew it was not going to happen this summer.

After a brief pause David changed direction of the conversation: “You play that guitar? He wondered pointing at Paul’s guitar. 

Paul glanced at the beaten guitar case leaning against a wall. Slightly embarrassed he replied: “A bit,” quickly returning to his croque monsieur. 

David obvlious to Paul’s embarrassment continued: “Why didn’t you join in the other day?”

“I’m not good enough, ” Paul said without looking at David hoping it would stop the conversation. For a few moments it seemed David was going to let it go, but he was too intrigued.

“You carry that thing around everywhere.”

“Yes?” Paul was now suspicious of where the conversation was going.

“I thought you could play it.”

In a reflex Paul defended: “I can play it!”

“Really?” David sounded mock surprised annoying Paul a little. “I haven’t heard you play it, so I don’t have any proof you really can.”

David studied Paul’s face, dark eyes trying to hide in an absent collar, his cheeks red with what David was to suggest next. And there it came: “Tonight, when they get their instruments out, you’ll join them.”

Paul didn’t answer, instead he put his face in his cup of cooled down coffee trying to hide away from David. Wasn’t this what Paul wanted anyway, playing with other people, or in a band? Didn’t he want to feel the magic of making music together? Why did his shyness always get the better of him? All the plans of school, studies, a steady job, were just because Paul didn’t have the guts to go after his dreams. It was nerve racking; the idea of having to show what he could do on his guitar made Paul very nervous. He always believed that other people were much better at playing, definitely at singing. Paul wasn’t even sure if he could sing at all. 

David, sensing Paul’s nervousness tried to encourage him: “C’mon, you’ll be all right. You can just sit in the back and play along. I’m sure you’ll be fine….” 

It did give Paul a bit of encouragement to just go for it, till David deflated his whole support a little: “Unless you suck, of course.”

***

Artie stretched and yawned in his foreign bed. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was and he allowed his conscience to piece it all together slowly. All he knew was that he was rather content, free and in a foreign country with lots of new people, new cultures and new adventures. Artie loved travelling; it broadened the mind and it came with a freedom Art didn’t know back home. He snoozed in the bed for another half hour letting the memories from the last couple of days wash over him. So far his travels had brought him what he had been looking for; everything he couldn’t do or see at home. He did some of the typical tourist attractions like the Eifel tower and a guided tour through the city. When he was done playing tourist, and was slowly running out of money, he dipped into the local youth culture looking for cheap places to eat and sleep and meeting other youngsters from all over the world. He followed his ears to the music, seeking out spots he could fall in, harmonies he could enrich or vocals he could take. There was a richness in Europe, a trend in music going on, taking the youngsters of the day on a new roller coaster, new avenues to explore. Most of all, Art found people to sing with, just as fleeting as back home in New York, but newer, different. Especially, Art found a new audience, their mouths and their eyes wide open as he sang them a song. He still loved to enchant people with his voice.

Next on his agenda was a nice French breakfast, then he would go out on the street again to see if he could find more music. There were new forces to look out for; the Beatles in the UK were making waves and back in America Bob Dylan was making waves. Art felt more attracted to what Dylan was doing, the gentleness of songs bringing harsh messages to the public. It worked. Art liked that, because those things needed to be said and they needed to be heard. Art really liked the Folk genre in general anyway, he could easily fit his trained voice and his skills in harmonies in that genre. He only needed to find the right person to do it with, especially now he didn’t have his tape recorders to produce his harmonies with. There was considerable talent on the streets of Paris. There was an overload of youngsters wielding their guitars and fending with their songwriting, some of them really promising. They didn’t catch Art’s heart completely. It was all lovely and Art could make his vocals fit the music, but the music never really seemed to wrap around his voice. This love making was a one way street it seemed.

Art sat up and stretched one more time before he slid his feet out of the bed and onto wooden floor. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and observed the room for a while. Other beds in the rooms, some occupied, some empty but slept in. Art checked the time, it was nearly 12 o’clock in the afternoon. Okay, brunch then, or didn’t they do that in Paris? Lunch was fine too. Still a little sleep drunk Art got up wobbling on his feet as he made his way to a tiny bathroom where he splashed some water in his face, his head already out of the door executing the his plans. He could go to Montmartre; the artistic outpouring there appealed to Art, the tourist overflow that was likely to be there, not so much. He wasn’t sure he was going to find many musicians there.

Still dreaming about the rest of his holiday Art got dressed and made his way to the tiny kitchen to see if there was any food. By the smells of it, there was cooking, a hot meal. Art wasn’t sure if his empty stomach was up for a hot meal already; he only just got up. As he sniffed out the meals he was greeted by several broadly smiling girls. Art returned the smile sgreeting good morning, the flog of girls following him to the kitchen. Jeanie, the girl who introduced Art to this little community, immediately got up when she saw Art.

“Good morning,” she heartily beamed. “There’s fresh soup and baguettes. You want some?”

She was already reaching for a soup bowl when Art stopped her: “Actually, is there coffee? I would like some bread though, please.”

Jeanie nodded: “Bread. Baguette?”

“Yeah, some of the baquette is all right.”

“Jam? Butter? I’ll make it for you.”Jeanie didn’t waste too many words, but got to work right away.

Art mumbled an okay and sat quietly down.

One of the girls pointed at him: “You sing,” she cheered.

Art had just taken a sip of his coffee swallowing and nodding: “Yeah, you like?” Meanwhile he observed he too started cutting out words. He figured especially during eating food, it was economical.

Art nearly choked on a bite of bread when someone suddenly patted him on the back quick hard: “Hey man! Great vocals yesterday!”

Art was still couching when he looked up to see his new American friend Matt whom he met on the plane. Between coughs he thanked him.

Matt started a one-sided conversation with Art: “Yeah, I used to sing in do-wop groups.” He looked down at Art expectantly, but Art was chewing away on his jammy baguette and slurping hot coffee.

When Matt didn’t get a reply he picked up the conversation again: “I used to sing harmonies…in those do-wop groups….” Another look at Art. “Do you sing harmonies?”

Art looked up from his coffee: “Hmmm? Oh….yeah,” then he took another big gulp.

“Maybe we could do some harmonies together,” Matt suggested wiggling his finger from himself to Art indicating the two of them.

Art answered with a mouth full of bread: “Great.”

“Maybe we can work something out for this evening,” Matt said starting to plan their cooperation. 

Maybe this was the partnership Artie had always been looking for. This guy was willing and motivated. Art, not being the forward type, let Matt do all the planning, this way Art could judge the situation and ascertain if and how this could work. Of course he had plans, he always did; he knew what he wanted from a partnership. He also had some experience, because he got around as well, also did some singing with different people, in different groups, on different street corners. It was all viable experience and it taught Artie a little how to cooperate or influence, trying to coax out the best sounds, the best harmonies they could produce. Art found with every group it was different; every group had its own balance, its own identity and every group had people in it affecting that balance. No matter how different, no matter how good the groups had been, they had never fully satisfied Art. Art always wanted something better, was always slaving over getting the balance right, long after most had judged it good enough. More often than not, it had meant Art’s loss of interest and eventually exit.

So, how perfectionistic was Matt going to be? Was he willing to repeat repeat repeat, till they met perfection? Was he willing to practice over and over again and work till every little detail was perfected? It was hard not to lose faith and keep going after so many had proven not willing to fidget for so long, but Art’s heart was still craving the harmonies, a cooperation, and inspiration to keep singing and finding new melodies to bring to the world. Did Matt write songs? That would really help.

Art swallowed the last bite of baguette and joined the conversation: “You think we’ll be ready for this evening?”

Matt nodded enthusiastically: “Oh, sure!”

“Hmmm,” Art doubtfully hummed bringing the mug of coffee to his lips.

***

Paul tuned his guitar quietly in the back. David was talking to some French girls in his broken French. They seemed to understand him well enough and they were giggling a lot.

David suggested practicing some songs, so Paul had something to play this evening. Just to be prepared, might the opportunity present itself. David checked with some guys who claimed to be there, they listed a few songs and David introduced Paul telling them he would join them this evening and if he could get a heads up so he knew what to play. The community was very open and Paul was not even asked if he could play at all. It made him nervous; hopefully they weren’t expecting another Dylan or Elvis Presley, because Paul was neither of them and was even sure that he couldn’t reach their level of craftsmanship, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Several musicians were unpacking around Paul to get ready for the evening. A lot of girls dancing, so a lot to lose. It was a bit a contest who could get the prettiest girl. Timidly he plucked his strings as he watched and listened to the first boys warming up. They all seemed to have something in style that Paul didn’t have. They were tall, they were chiselled, they were cool or peaced out, they were copies of the Beatles, Bob Dylan, or something more hard-core like the Rolling Stones. Already they were attracting the most girls and this was just warming up. Those girls didn’t notice the quiet, small, dark boy in the back churning out some timid melodies and using some interesting techniques. If only he had the courage to step forward, step out of the shadows and play were everyone could see and most importantly hear him. Paul didn’t have the guts, nor the confidence that what he was doing would be found interesting by anyone. So he kept to himself and only shuffled out of the shadow when David told him to.

“Show him what you can do,” David ordered.

Paul squeezed passed two taller, cooler boys towards David and a young man with cerulean eyes and wild, dark blond hair. 

“What shall I play,” Paul asked his question barely louder than a whisper.

“Play what you played me,” David suggested: “That was really good. Oh, by the way, this is Thomas; he needs someone else besides me to support him, he’s a singer.”

Paul nodded: “Okay,” and started to play.

The faces were at first polite, then slowly heads in the room started to turn to see who was playing. Thomas’ face was lighting up and David looked proud at his find. 

It was something Paul couldn’t describe, because he didn’t fully understand it. All he knew was that something came over him when he was playing. When he was playing he forgot all his inhibitions and his shyness about doing it in public. Unfortunately, that usually came back to him straight after he played his last note. Now he was in the music, almost playing as if his life depended on it. He sought the freedom, he rode the emotional wave, lived in the music, completely failed to see the curious faces turning towards him. He also failed to see the sparkle in Thomas’ and David’s eyes, and the girls who also turned their heads away from the local guitar hero and inched a little closer to see and hear the new music. By the time time Paul played the last note, the room was silently listening, the buzz quieted down, you could hear a pin drop.

Paul lingered for a few seconds in his last note, the spontaneous applause waking him from his referee. His cheeks immediately coloured a bright red and he could feel cold sweats breaking out in his neck. Thomas and David stood in front him, clapping wildly. Some of the girls were now standing in front of him, their eyes ablaze with excitement.

“You American? No?” one of the girls squeaked.

Paul undid the strap and lowered his guitar self-consciously, yeah he was American. He tried to slink off back into the shadows, but David quickly grabbed his elbow.

“So what do you think, Thom?”

Thom stuck up his thumb: “Definitely!” Then he turned to Paul: “Can you sing? I need someone to do some backing vocals.”

“Oh,” Paul abashedly exclaimed as he stumbled backwards: “Oh, no uhm, I dunno…I mean, I don’t usually…”

Thomas smiled: “You sing in the shower?” David laughed loudly.

Thomas didn’t wait for Paul to reply: “I can teach you. You’ll be fine.”

Thomas looked around the room, saw the people crowding around them, some girls agape at Paul’s skills and Americanness, and Paul still trying to slink off to a quieter spot.

“Let’s find a room where we can practice,” he pointed in the general direction of outside. 

Paul quietly nodded, feeling his cheeks burn. He could really do with some fresh air and he wanted to get away from all the attention; it was all a bit much.  
Somewhere in the half dark, where Paul left his guitar case and bag, he fumbled some stuff into his bag and carefully laid his guitar in its cover. He knew he really looked like a travelling street musician this way, a little bit beaten, a little bit rough, but determined to make the world a better place, one note after another. He almost dared to liken himself a little to Dylan. Maybe he wasn’t as skilled as Dylan and Paul couldn’t convey the double meaning or undecidedness in his lyrics like Dylan could, but he was convinced he had something to say and he knew he could write the English language well; he Mastered in it. For a few minutes, in his safe little world, he could be like Dylan. The moment he turned around and saw the other musicians, it was decidedly confirmed he was not Dylan, but Paul Simon, a no-one from New Jersey who dabbled on the guitar and who would probably give in to his parents’ wishes and become an English teacher. Yes, that was who he was.

With a sigh he followed David and Thomas out of the crowded café and into another building with a quiet rehearsal room. There were instruments everywhere and Thomas brushed some candy wraps and other rubbish into the garbage . 

“Okay,” he announced. “I’ll show you the stuff I want to play this evening.”

Paul was still unpacking his guitar. David was taking place on a table near Thomas, guitar in lap, still fumbling with the strap. Paul joined them without saying a word.

Thomas pointed at him: “You should play the lead guitar.”

Paul was shocked by that phrase; no-one had ever said that to him before.

Thomas meanwhile turned to David: “No offence, mate, but he’s better.”

Thomas was in the lead since he was the singer and he already had a setlist and even a few self-written songs. The song s were not bad, but Paul could think of some improvements. At first he followed Thomas lead, sheepishly playing what was asked. He was reticent about deviating from what Thomas wanted and had written; they were his songs after all. However, as Paul got the songs better in his fingers and certain aspects were starting to annoy him, he tentavily played it differently. Thomas stopped the session.

“What was that!?”

Paul shrunk a little in embarrassment.

“What did you just play there?”

The bloods of self-consciousness and fear of failing immediately invaded his face and neck and the cold sweats were back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Thomas noticed Paul’s cheeks glowing up: “Why are you so shy about everything you do? There’s no need to be so embarrassed.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled again.

David sat quietly laughing a little and petted Paul on the back: “Keep going! You’re doing great!”

Thomas agreed sticking up his thumb again.

Paul took a deep breath, tried to force the blood away and calm himself down. The confirmation from both boys encouraged Paul to improvise more, play to the music and embraced Thomas’ singing.  
Ah yes, the singing. David, very kindly, took up the backing vocals. With Paul singing along, Paul didn’t need to worry too much about his singing, and when they needed another voice, he could somewhat hide his voice under Thomas’ and David’s. That Paul was comfortable enough with.

***

Art had very strong ideas about how the harmonies should sound. No, they didn’t always sound exactly the same as on the radio. No, they didn’t need to, as long as it sounded right, as long it sounded beautiful. Art new what he could do; he knew his own voice well, its range, its tone and its overall ability. Matt on the other hand wasn’t as well trained as Art had hoped, but he was pretty good with harmonies and he had a good feel for music. With a bit of tweaking and with some exercise Art was sure they could make soaring harmonies together. Matt however, wasn’t keen on writing new harmonies, he’d rather stick to what he heard and learnt to sing, because that was how it was on the radio and how, to his mind, the songs should sound. It was a bit of a battle of opinions; sometimes Matt gave in, but most of the time Art converted back to the well known harmonies. They weren’t bad, it just didn’t please Art quite as much.

Then there was the case of fitting the voices together. For a part that had to happen naturally, for another part you could give it a push. The latter did require the devoted effort of both parties. Art was game, at first it seemed so was Matt. Except that once Art started the process of bending the voices to one another, Matt had some problems with it.

“I just don’t sing like that!”

“You can learn,” Art tried again.

“You’ve been saying that for the last three hours.”

“Yes, because it’s true, but you have to cooperate.”

“You can’t expect me to do something that’s just not me. That’s not how I sing.”

Art sighed; they seemed to be stuck in a vicious circle.

“Listen, if you really want to make those harmonies work, you have to bring the voices together. You don’t do that by just singing in tune. Every voice has its own timbre, its own tone. And every man has his own pronunciation and use of the voice. If there are differences left in voices, they should complement each other.”

“Christ, Artie. We’re just gonna sing some songs together, not present a science project.”

Exasperated Art turned away from Matt; maybe not such a good partnership after all. Maybe he could salvage the situation.

“Okay, let’s turn things around; you take the higher harmony, I’ll take the lower.”

“How’s that gonna help?”

Art bit his lower lip, trying very hard not to lose his patience: “Let’s just see if it works better.”

Now Matt sounded exasperated: “It worked fine!”

“Will you just take the higher harmony! Please!” Art spat out finally having lost his patience.

Matt didn’t seem all that impressed as he shrugged: “All right, whatever.” He lifted his guitar into his lap and gave Art a suspicious look. Now Art didn’t look very impressed. Matt strummed his guitar, but some of his initial fire and motivation had disappeared. He got the right key and he found the high harmony all right and Art managed to fit his harmonies fine, but neither of them was feeling it anymore. Art really wanted to join the musicians again, he had a blast the night before. It was all fun, and it was his holiday, he could let his standards slip for once and give in to Matt’s ideas of how to do it.

When they finished the song Art bit his lower lip saying nothing as he watched Matt pack his guitar. He was with his back to Art most of the time, avoiding eye contact. 

“Yeah still want to sing?” Art wondered.

Matt’s shoulders slumped and he took his time turning around to face Art.

“I dunno…”

“We can just do the songs, join in with the rest of them. It’s fine. It’s the summer holidays after all, I’m sure it’ll be fun. We’ve got the songs down, really,” Art tried again.

Matt fumbled with a corner of his shirt. He sighed before he responded: “I suppose.”

Art got up only now noticing how stiff he had gotten. He stretched out his hands above his head as he arched his back. He was actually hungry as well.

“Let’s go eat something, I’m hungry. We’ll decide what to do after.”

Matt sighed again: “Okay.”

***

Paul and his companions were happy with their collaboration, Thomas even suggested Paul should play some solos; David agreed even though he had hoped he could play some. Paul found it quite fun to play with Thomas and David since they were very encouraging and enthusiastic about his playing; it gave him courage to step into the limelight. The nerves he was feeling during dinner were, for a change, not crippling. As long he didn’t start overthinking what he was about to do, he was fine. Concentrate on the music. Concentrate on the food for now.

They were having a nice dinner in the house were the stage, or rather a carpeted open space in the middle of the room, was already waiting for the musicians. It was cheaper to join the others early and this way they could take their time eating and setting up their gear. The mood was also relaxed and there was an atmosphere of freedom and possibilities. It helped keeping Paul calm. He didn’t think he was ever happier playing music. Back home, after a year hiatus from his initial guitar introduction, Paul started practicing again, alone in his bedroom, without his little brother rolling eyes at him. He maybe was shy, but he did have perseverance and he was determined to get the technique of picking down. The first few weeks he played trial and error till his fingers bled. After a while his fingers became more calloused and his picking more skilled. Before long he could play his first tune. 

He mainly played for his own dreams in hopes they would miracously come true. He was still hoping he would somehow turn into a second Elvis Presley. Later on, when Paul realized he would never turn into a second Elvis, he was ready to give up guitar playing again and he would have if it had not been for the Everly Brothers. Their image was not as outlandish and far from what Paul dreamt he could be. There was only one problem, the singing and especially the harmonies. Paul gleefully crooned along when he caught them on the radio and he happened to be on his own. Unlike his guitar playing, Paul had difficulty deciding how his singing was and that didn’t help his confidence, so he kept quiet when other people were around. Of course in the mirror, with his mother’s brush substituting as a microphone, he was a good guitar player and singer and his and his invisible partner’s voice blended together beautifully. They were a top act, admired by many. 

He also dabbled a bit in songwriting; it seemed a logical step, since his dad, a professional musician, also wrote songs from time to time. To Paul’s surprise, when he sat down to write a song, the music came first, the words later. It was a surprise since Paul was looking at a study in English; he felt right at home in those classes. He expected the words to come easy, but they didn’t; half of the time it was not really what he wanted to say, but he had trouble finding interesting words that fit the music. He could be more determined about the songwriting, but his parents, especially his dad, tried to discourage him so he could spend that time studying. Since he was never going to be Elvis Presley and since he wouldn’t ever be the Everly Brothers either, Paul didn’t fight his parents in that matter. Instead he wrote a few tunes he kept to himself. Silly little things, no-one would be interested in hearing them anyway.

Watching the other musicians flaunting their songs and earning them the girls’ attention, Paul somewhat regretted not honing his skills as a songwriter. Yes, he wrote the occasional song, but he wasn’t an experienced songwriter, so his songs weren’t that good. Of course, that was all Paul’s judgement since no-one ever heard them, and if it was up to Paul, no-one ever would. He was happy enough to play along on other people’s songs, maybe do a little bit of backing vocals. Thomas said his voice was quite nice and with a bit of exercise he could learn to become a good enough singer to sing backing vocals in a band or something. Paul was blown away by that remark; he didn’t see himself as a singer.

The nerves became more heightened as the evening grew older and closer to Paul’s public debut on guitar and vocals. It was a good thing he could hide behind Thomas and David. As usual he found himself a spot in the dark of a shadow were he could warm-up in peace. He was so dark and small, it was easy to disappear in a crowd. For a little while he was able to play without obstruction, without distraction, without acknowledging he was warming up to perform for people. It was when David came looking for him that Paul really started to feel the nerves, but he couldn’t let Thomas and David down. Meek like a sheep he followed David towards the open circle. Thomas was already there setting up a paper with the setlist on it, a glass of water and a tambourine. Paul could feel the blood streaming to his cheeks. He could pass that off as heat from the clammy crowd. He quietly took a position behind Thomas, David squeezing his shoulder.

“It’s all right, you’ll be fine,” he tried to encourage Paul.

Paul nodded sheepishly.

Thomas waited for the crowd to silence then turned to David and Paul to start playing. Like in a dream his fingers started picking the strings and music floated from his guitar dancing around the notes floating from David’s guitar. Thomas gave one last ensuring smile and then turned to the crowd and started singing. Everything about the experience felt unreal. There he was, in a band, playing guitar and providing some backing vocals. It all seemed to happen automatically; Paul’s fingers automatically new what strings to pick or suppress and his voice automatically sang the backing vocals. He listened with surprise and shock to his first public solo, almost like an out of body experience. It was much easier than Paul imagined and with the music sounding right, even the sounds he was pulling from his guitar, Paul’s confidence and enjoyment grew influencing the songs for the best. Soon enough he was completely in the moment and the three of them even got the crowd dancing. Paul was basically beaming in the back, unable to control his grin. Thomas gave him one of his familiar thumbs up after one solo and David was smiling broadly at him.

Yes, Paul had never been happier.

***

Art flicked the last bit of his cigarette away. It was quiet on the street and he was surprised how short the day had seemed even though it was in the middle of the summer. It had been an interesting day, starting out late, then rehearsing with a new friend the whole afternoon. Art wasn’t so sure anymore about his ideas about singing and harmonies. So far, no-one had been patient enough to stick with it and make it to the finish with him. Maybe it really was him, maybe he really id ask too much. Whatever the case, after dinner things didn’t go as planned.

Together Art and Matt found a small café to eat something. At first they were quiet; their arguments and differences in opinions had cooled their young friendship. Uncomfortably they sat at a table sipping their drinks and waiting for their food. They had some awkward conversation about their holidays and further plans when another young man broke in requiring after their nationalities and their further plans. Matt was going to stay another week in Paris, Art was looking to travel eastwards soon. The new boy perked up immediately telling Art he was going to travel to Prague by train and if he liked to join him since his previous travelling partner had decided to stay in Paris. The tickets were for a train leaving that evening from Gare de l’Est to Luxembourg and from there on to Prague. Since Art had lost interest in the music evening and since he was still looking for ways to travel to the east and since he had never been in Prague before, he said ‘yes’ on the spot. He realized only a second too late he was abandoning his shared plans with Matt and he suspiciously turned to him. Matt shrugged, he caught on that Artie was never going to do whatever he wanted anyway. So Artie was free to go, he only had to go back to the house to pick up his stuff.

When Art arrived back at the front door of the house youngsters were pouring in for a cheap meal and the music to follow. With difficulty he made his way up to the room he had slept in the night before and where he had left his bags. He was travelling light, only one backpack. He grabbed all his stuff, mainly dirty clothes, together and stuffed them unorganized in the backpack. Once he was packed he took one last look around the room making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything and trying to memorize the room. He spent a good three nights in this room and it had been a lot of fun. Then he made his way down the stairs, backpack on back making him awkward and inflexible. He nearly knocked over a guy with a guitar on his back, a small fellow balancing for a moment and then disappearing in the crowd. He also nearly hit a girl in the face with his backpack, but this time he had time to apologise before finally stepping out of the house. 

He made his way to the station where he would meet his new travelling companion and his friend to take over the train ticket. It was all very straight forward. They met in front of the station, Art handed over the francs he had left and received in return the train ticket and a bottle of soda. Then he followed his partner into the station and to the right platform his eyes already ablaze with new adventures. They’d be sleeping in the train, but that was fine with Art. He gave Paris one last look and then he stepped onto the train.


	3. Bleecker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Paul & Art pick up their lives after returning from Europe.

Paul leant his cheek on his right fist while his left hand was turning at the knob of the radio playing with the volume. The radio was his again, just his, not his girlfriend’s nor her friends’. Paul had no problem with the music they were playing, he had no problem with the Beatles, as a matter of fact, they were fast holding Paul’s interest; their new found curiosity in adventuring music was one that fascinated Paul. Never before had ayone done what the Beatles were doing. It was new, it was different and daring. It opened up how music would develop from now on. Paul so wished he was in that game, in a studio playing with the possibilities of melodies and rythms. Now that his girlfriend became his ex-girlfriend, and she and all her friends were all gone, Paul could enjoy the Beatles for their music again, instead of the incessant whine of how cute Beatle Paul was and how rugged John was. Now that she was gone, Paul was free to go back to his music, without his girlfriend worrying if he was writing a song to another girl.

David and Thomas had opened a door in Paul’s mind. That dancing crowd in France, cheering them on, the girls afterwards. Most were fighting for Thomas’ attention, but some girls were trying to catch Paul’s. He was the guitar player, American and really quite cute. Some of the guys also became very interested in Paul, they wanted to know how he played certain songs and solos. His fingerpicking was something new to them and they recognized Paul’s skills on the guitar. David, a little put out he lost most of the female attention to Paul, begrudgingly said a “I told you so”. Thomas laughed, his thumb up as he encouraged Paul to take up on one of the girls’ offer. Paul, still not used to this much attention from the opposite sex and a little bewildered by all the praise, turned down the invitation. Instead he went back upstairs on his own, still reeling from the evening’s events. He laid his head down, letting the most flattering comments pass through his mind, the pretty girls’ smiles and the cool guys’ compliments. Paul could get used to it.

Back in New Jersey, where a job as an English teacher was awaiting him, Paul had no idea if he should temper or feed the fire of this new found passion. He didn’t want to disappoint his parents. He didn’t want to let go of his dreams. He took the answer when he got his new girlfriend, tempering the fire was what he was going to do so he could provide for himself and his girlfriend. Tempering the fire also because his girlfriend was rather jealous of Paul’s handful of female admirers, the few he had collected when he started to play his music in public. When he returned home, after he had a taste of playing for a crowd, Paul wanted to try his luck in the New York club scene. More than ever, he knew what he wanted to do and he ventured out to see if anyone wanted to give him a stage. Paul found a club that did open mic evenings. The first evening he lingered around the stage letting others steal his moments. The second night he was pretty much pushed onto the stage by one of the boys who saw him hanging around not ceasing opportunities. Being put on the spot, quite literally, Paul could do nothing more than play. Just like in France, the room was a little noisy when he started, but soon he managed to turn heads. His voice might have been shaking a little, since it was the first time he was singing on his own, but his guitar playing was steady and skilled. He closed his set to cheers and applause and promised to return soon, which he did. Not long after he was playing in a regular spot instead of the open mic evening, till his new girlfriend put a stopper in it.

It didn’t matter anymore; she was gone and Paul was contemplating rekindling his little Bleecker Street career. With a decisive flick of the wrist Paul turned the radio off, the crackling fading into silence. He tapped his fingers on the table as he thought of the people he should give a call, see if he could secure himself a new spot in some club some time this week. This time he might actually start playing his own songs; he written more since and now had a set worth.

His head was already on the stage and his hands automatically moved to where his guitar was supposed to be. Last night he had the dream since a long time. It came more frequently again, now she was gone. Paul wasn’t sure it was because he let his head wander to music again and to his teenage dream, or because now thinking of Artie didn’t feel like cheating anymore. Funny how persistent the memory of this boy was. Paul could hear his voice in his mind’s ear, as if he was standing right next to Paul. He could feel his presence now; he was waiting for Paul to start playing, waiting for his que. His voice was already singing, quietly, as if he was warming up or he couldn’t help himself. An endearing quality that always made Paul smile and one, now he came to think of it, was one he made up. What did not quite happen in Paul’s mind was the maturing of the voice; it was still the unusual high and clear voice that Paul heard when he was a preteen. 

Paul slowly opened his eyes and sighed. He was alone in the room, the lights were dimmed, late in the evening, with the music from the streets moving in. He could join them or dream up his own little world. He closed his eyes again, Artie was still there. He had taken the guitar out of Paul’s lap and was fondling him. That familiar funny wuzzy feeling was tingling throughout Paul’s whole body. He was younger again, more innocent, purer, with all the worries of grownups stripped away. He felt close to being 11 again, with the world wide open, waiting for him to conquer it. If he tried extra hard, he could feel Artie’s breath on his skin and the motion of his own hand was that of Artie’s. Artie knew so well what he liked, got the friction just right, got the speed just right, till Paul gasped. 

The room seemed darker and colder and Paul had to catch up on work, preparing his class and grading exams. Paul knew why he was dreaming again.

***

The classroom was quiet; you could hear a pin drop. Paul was preparing the next class while the students were doing an exam. It was funny, the transition from student to teacher. He thought the exam he had prepared was not too hard, but judging by the sighs and groans, the students didn’t agree with him. Didn’t he prepare them properly? He was sure all the subjects were discussed in class and the exercises should have prepared them as well. He let his eyes glide over the classroom filled with bent heads, a scribbling pen here and there. He couldn’t detect any cheat sheets, or peeking at neighbour’s papers so he turned back to the papers in front of him.

It was hard to concentrate. Ever since he decided to get back on the circuit, his mind was mainly occupied with preparing his set, writing more songs and perfecting the ones he had written before, some new, but most old ones. He found out over the last couple of years, his writing process wasn’t exactly fast, but he was fairly certain of the quality of his work. He had sent some tapes to David, to see what he thought. David had been generous in his praise, Paul thought. His brother, Eddie, had also heard some of them and had begrudgingly admitted that Paul had gotten good on guitar, maybe just as good as he was. Eddie didn’t write songs, so he felt free to show his appreciation for the songs. His parents, especially his dad, weren’t quite as thrilled.

Time seemed to crawl by and it got harder and harder to concentrate on the schoolwork. When Paul bent his head to look at the papers he saw lyrics swimming by, he could hear the chords to play and the melodies blossoming in his head. The musician in him recognized a flow of creativity that didn’t match the work he was supposed to do. Discreetly he scribbled down some notes on a notepad he was hiding under his school papers. Floats and flutters of lyrics scribbled unintelligibly through reminders of chords. His new found freedom inspired ideas to come quickly, as if he his head and heart were trying to catch up time. Paul got so deeply involved in getting all the ideas down, he almost forgot he was in the classroom, overseeing an exam and preparing his next class. It was the occasional cough, or papers shoved under his nose that pulled him back from time to time. Nothing much of his preparations came along; he was just going to have to wing it.

Time flew by when the ideas poured through Paul’s hands and pen onto the paper. He made sure in the rest of the classes he reserved time to write more, giving his pupils exams or exercises, anything that freed him up to work on his songs. Maybe the teens noticed their teacher’s distraction, and they sure grumbled at the impromptu exams, Paul didn’t really care if he was found out. Part of the writing process was the feeling and emotions flowing, as if he was committing his burden to the paper, or celebrating the possibility of expression. It was like an addiction taking possession of his mind and body. He had to write it all down, he needed to do it right now. It was the buzzer signalling the end of the school day that woke Paul up out of his trance.

It was as if the air in the classroom was stale and choking Paul. Maybe it really was; he should have the air conditioning checked. No matter the cause, stepping outside the school into the fresh air made Paul’s head feel dizzy for a few seconds. He stopped and steadied himself before he moved on; he had no wish to stumble and fall and make a complete fool out of himself in front of all the pupils. Even though he was only a meagre ten years older than they were, he was still their teacher and not a very cool one in their opinion. It didn’t matter, Paul’s first priority was getting home and finding his guitar to turn the ideas into songs. He was going onto the circuit again and he was excited about it.

Was Artie still active? Paul only saw and heard him performance once, but after asking around, he found out quite a few people knew of him and his golden voice. That was a few years ago though, when Paul had gotten more serious about his songwriting after he perfected his guitar playing. It occurred to Paul folk music would fit his voice really nicely. Maybe he even wrote some songs with Artie’s voice in mind. Strange that. 

Maybe, if he had persevered in his search and ambitions a bit more, they could have met and hooked up. Art could sing his songs, maybe they could write together. Maybe they could sing together, doing harmonies or something; every band seemed to do harmonies these days.

Maybe, if he had persevered in his guitar playing a little earlier, maybe they would have met on the circuit. Maybe Paul would have taken the stage in his teens instead of lingering around musicians till he was pushed onto the stage forced to play in order not to look a fool. Maybe Artie would have seen him play and then they would hook up and make music together.

And what if they never moved back to New Jersey? Maybe they would be in the same school, maybe even the same class. They would have been friends naturally and music would follow, automatically.

Those were a lot of “Maybe’s” and “What if’s”. Paul shook all those silly thoughts off of him. They never met face to face, so Paul was on his own. Maybe they would meet on the circuit now. It could happen.

 

***

Sometimes it came easy, but usually it was hard work. Most of the time he had the melody, he knew which rhythms and chords to play. Then he had to fit in the words, figure out what he wanted to say and phrase and bend them to fit the melody. Over the course of the evening he set his goal down from five songs that week, to three, then one in two days and eventually admitting that he might actually need the whole month to really finish the songs to the point he was happy to perform them. He knew he was slow, that it took time to write something good, but the pace got even him a little frustrated. At this pace, he was lucky to be on the stage with his own songs in two or three months.

In the past he had given up too easy and to quick; he was not going to do that now. That evening he was writing and fiddling with his guitar till deep into the night, fussing over only two lines that might go in one of the songs. For hours he played the same two lines over and over, in different rhythms, different cadences, chords, mixing the words up, rewriting the words completely, playing around with sounds in words, pronunciations and tones. He kept going till he was happy. Only two lines. He supposed he just had to suffer for his art.

Eventually he sat on the side of his bed, his guitar still unpacked next to him, his fingers hurting from playing. It didn’t matter, Paul was content; he found his hook and around it the song was slowly taking form in his head. He sat there till he collapsed backwards on the bed, his head filled with a voice so pure and clear, singing those two lines. Perfection.

***

After returning home from Europe Art picked up his maths studies again, putting music on the backburner. After the disaster with Matt, Art had given up on finding his perfect partner; he just had to accept there was no-one else like him, willing to spend hour after hour perfecting their craft. Art concentrated on his studies and was looking at becoming a maths teacher. That was not to say that he put music aside completely. He still sang in the Synagogue from time to time and he sometimes joined bands to do some vocals, but nothing permanent and nothing that got his hopes up very high. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was still secretly hoping, if only for his own amusement. He was just missing something in the pop scene these days, a sensibility, an intellect, a voice for a boy like him that was not rooted in the psychedelia of the Beatles, nor the harshness that slowly became known as rock. If he could find that, maybe even if he could lend his voice to that, the music scene would be just that little bit more complete. Wouldn’t it? Or was he just daydreaming?

With that hope, Art still went to Greenwich Village, still went into the clubs on Bleecker Street, was still looking for that one person to fill that emptiness. Could that person exist, outside of the general group? Art’s experience was that being alone in his way, really truly meant being alone. He never found that person who was as willing to work to that detail on music. He never found that person who was as perfectionistic as he was. He never found that person who laughed at the same things he laughed at, or dreamt as hard about making it outside the defined culture he was raised in. He never found that other turned on person, and it rather put him out. He hadn’t quite accepted his peculiarity as something that unique yet. He was still holding out for his best friend who must be wandering the earth with the same feelings, all on his own. Maybe they were simply too far apart to meet. Maybe it just wasn’t their time yet. Maybe Art was too demanding, or too weird. Probably he was both.

Whatever the reason, Art was on his own. He had given up songwriting years ago, so providing for himself was not an option. A few years back he also gave up playing guitar, so supporting himself became a no-go. Both because he thought he just wasn’t good enough. It did limit what he could do on stage, on his own. His strengths lay somewhere else and some of them were engaging with the audience, numbers, percentages and calculations. All of that he could pour into maths and teaching in particular. He had been tutoring for years, so he felt he knew already to an extend how teaching felt. He was fairly good at it and it gave him a good feeling about himself. So the decision wasn’t that hard, maths it was. After graduation he accepted a job as a maths teacher.

The classroom was quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Art was preparing the next class while the students were doing an exam. Art always had a natural talent for maths, but he knew not everyone did. He knew his pupils fairly well and he knew the ones that were prone to cheat, the one that were struggling and the ones like him, gliding through the exam as if they were asked to list their favourite candy.

Most of his activities now seemed geared at teaching maths; singing had indefinitely become a hobby, a pipe dream put to sleep. It was all right; teaching was a sort of performance. Both required preparation, preening and a certain level of perfection to get the most out of it. In both cases Art was expected to engage his listeners, beit to entertain and enlight, or to nurture and teach. He also enjoyed teaching, he loved sharing his knowledge and skills with a younger generation, he loved making others as enthusiastic about maths as he was. Sure, he still loved singing, but Art accepted that he was never going to be a rock star, it just wasn’t to be. He could still sing in Synagogue, maybe do chance performances in clubs. He just wasn’t going to pursue a career in music anymore, he just didn’t have the stamina nor the appetite for that kind of play on that kind of level. Art just wanted to be able to sing, not worry about the business side of it too much. If people didn’t want to give him that opportunity, then fine, there were enough other things Art could do.

With all his upcoming classes and exams prepared, he had nothing left to do while the pupils worked on their exams, so he started reading. Art loved expanding his mind and he discovered books could take you to places you yourselves couldn’t go. He found it sucked him in, submerge him in new worlds, learning new things, challenging his opinions and principles. Books became his perfect companions. He laughed with them, learnt with them, swooned with them, shared all kinds of emotions with them. It was a very safe way of channelling his own feelings and it suited Art fine. He could even almost forget about that black whole that kept gnawing at his conscience and heart. He couldn’t quite get rid of that feeling he was losing out on something, not fulfilling his destiny or ambitions.

During the rest of the classes Art gladly stood and talked about maths, did exercises, helped students on and ignored his lost dreams. When he was back home, on his own, eating his lonely dinner and watching TV, it became harder to ignore his urge to sing.

So he threw on a tie, absentmindedly fumbling with the knot trying to get it to look right. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was going for a formal look, it just seemed it took the least effort. Once he tied it properly, he took a look in the mirror, grimaced and loosened it up making it look a bit more casual. That was better, more the style he wanted to go for. A stylish tie over a colourful shirt; Art wondered if it wasn’t too loud for his personality. Since Art didn’t feel like spending too much time on his attire, he decided to leave it on; it was good enough. His hair, as usual, was a mess of curls; he wasn’t even going to attempt to brush it. Looking himself over he judged his appearance acceptable, grabbed his wallet and coat and left the house without a second thought.

He could call one of his study buddies, but that usually ended in them getting drunk, or stoned, or high, or a combination of some of these statuses. That was not why Art was going out this evening. Apparently, the hope to find something new, something different and closer to his own needs, was still alive, even after the last fiasco. Art mused about this revelation as he walked at a considerable pace towards Bleecker Street, dodging people left and right. He barely saw them, he was that distracted by his own thoughts and daydreaming. If he didn’t find it in music, he might find something in company. Someone different and new, that could be refreshing and inspiring. Art was gracious and respectful to women and men alike, but he was not prude. The idea of allowing himself this secret indulgence gave him some fresh hope for a nice evening that would distract him from his lost boyish dreams.

The street was buzzing, as usual; all the clubs and restaurants were taking advantage of the time of night. The street filled with people, sounds and smells. It was the free atmosphere which relaxed Art; there was no pressure in finding anything or anyone, only to enjoy himself. If life granted him his wishes, it was an added bonus on top of a relaxing fun evening. Before going into a club, Art needed some food in his stomach. Since he didn’t want to be fussy about food and just wanted a quick bite, he ordered some take out. He took it to a quiet place where he could sit and watch the people walk by. Going out these days was a bit of a weird experience, since the chance of running into one of his students wasn’t unlikely. Art didn’t think he was regarded as cool, rather just weird and old even though he was only about ten years older than they were. Maybe it would win him some cool points, though he expected to only earn himself more weird points. Not that he cared all that much about which points he would collect, he was rather a little worried about what his colleagues would think. Especially since he only had a contract for one year as a substitute teacher which he hoped to follow up with a permanent contract. So far, he never ran into one of his students.

It was a typical crowd the Bleecker street crowd. Most came to listen to the latest trends in music, some came to hear folk music as introduced to Bob Dylan. Others came to listen to poetry and a whole slew of people came to eat, drink and generally have a good time. Art came to chase after a dream slowly fading away in a mist of obligations, daily routines and the changing times. The 60’s had been wild, chaotic and restless and by the looks of it, would continue to be that way till the decade gave way to a new decade. Maybe out of the musical rubble Art could find something that pleased him. Something he could run with. There were only two years left to make something of the 60’s.

Out of the crowds stuck a young man, intelligent eyes, dark hair blowing in the wind, a polite smile on his face. Art’s eyes started to follow the young man, unplanned, unexpected. Art gulped the food away and paused trying to see where he was going. He was pretty, the brightest thing Art had seen so far. Should he pursue him? Could be fun, a flirt. It would sure distract him from his miserable lonely existence. He stuffed a few more bites of food in his mouth then cleaned up his stuff and dumped it in the nearest garbage can. With large steps he made his way through the crowds to where he saw the boy disappear. He was looking forward to a relaxing night of conversation and maybe even some cuddles. Of course he would find out the guy’s hobbies, maybe music was one of them. Art would not push his luck, there was no good reason why his perfect partner would suddenly present himself on this cold, dark evening.

The tricky part with a same-sex interest was finding out if the person you are interested in also has same-sex interests. Art usually took the time finding out a person’s sexual interests. Always start with a casual conversation, about the immediate activities around you, like the music that was playing. In some cases political discussions were an option, but not tonight.  
Art positioned himself near the boy, at the bar. By the looks of it, he was with a few friends, all fashionable hippies, so probably tolerant of free love. Some of them even seemed to be gay; that would make the approach easier.   
Art manoeuvred himself into the group as if he just moved in to order a drink. He was now very close to his target. He purposely accidentally pushed up against him when he reached out for the bar. The boy turned around to see who was invading his private space. 

Art apologetically gestured: “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to order a beer.”

The boy smiled at him and turned away. Needs more probing, Art analysed. Just as he was about to do another bit more subtle push, the boy turned back to him, beer in hand, offering it to Art. Art nearly knocked the beer out of his hand.

“Oh…Is that for me?”

The boy nodded trying to shout over all the noise.

Art took the beer and the opportunity to introduce himsef: “Thanks! I’m Art Garfunkel.”

The boy leaned in to hear him as Art leaned forward as well. Art nearly touched him with his nose. A nice tanned face and soft features, almost girlish. Art liked what he saw.

“My name is Noah,” the boy shouted into Art’s ear.

“You’re Jewish?” Art delightfully inquired.

The boy smiled and nodded. Perfect. 

 

Art’s finger trailed along the curve of a back, warm and smooth. Never thought he would choose this kind of life. When he was younger he always thought he would have a wife and children, a mortgage and a pet. He would also have a steady, respectable job. It was always a surprise to see what life threw at you. However, what really surprised Art was his own decisions and preferences in love relationships. He was very aware, now was the time to be wild and adventurous, to meet new people and have some fun before he settled down as a married man. He was surprised he had a taste for someone of his own sex. He sometimes found it refreshing after all the female prettiness. He would never stray too far; Art had a strong need and appetite for beauty and softness. 

Softness. Art’s fingers gently stroke soft brown hair and sucked at the rim of the ear eliciting a quiet hum from his latest lover. He was sweet and warm, gentle and caring. Art aligned his body with his form, pressing up against his back while hands stroke down the boy’s thigh. He was still slumbering, rocking Art away into a dream. He could get used to this; the boy was pretty boy, almost girlish. He was also very level headed, had a good idea about what and who he was and said goodbye to all his childish dreams already, including the one about becoming a famous rock star. That was a little bit a blow to Art; it made him feel immature and ashamed of his secret dreaming. The boy played guitar quite well and had a nice melodious voice, but not the ambition to make something more of it.

Art trailed his finger over his spine again, musing he could follow this boy into the rest of his life. He would be caring and sensible. He would tell Art to grow up and build a life, sensible shoes, a steady job and security. That was worth something. They could be very happy together. Right then and there it sounded like a splendid idea. Art didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bed, the protection of his embracing arms and the understanding beautiful smile. Art could drown in that smile and the dark friendly eyes, the dimples in his cheeks when he laughed. At this crossroad of his life, it made sense to try and make a life together. It made sense to try and start his own family, or at least have a steady love partner. In the softness of the bed, it didn’t scare Art at all, yet something kept his eyes wide open. 

Was Art ready for the rest of his life? Was he ready to let go of an old dream and find out who the singer also was?

***

Not sure he wanted to choose that path, Art excused himself but promised to stay in touch. Before long he was roaming the streets on his own again, still looking for someone with that something that would fit perfectly with Art’s something. The search would be easier if he knew what that something exactly was. Was music still this important to him? Did he still crave that career that badly? He had to admit, he wasn’t sure who he was if he wasn’t singing anymore. For a few days, he tried to convince himself that Noah was the answer, his saviour, lover and carer. Noah was all he needed and was also his safety net if not regularly singing in public proved a challenge. For a few days, Art believed it could work. He believed it till he got a bit breathless in the classroom. The vision of his red tie on his desk was burnt on the inside of his head. He had taken it off in the classroom, in front of a full class, when he had trouble breathing. He realized a life following a daily routine around teaching seemed suffocating to Art. When was he supposed to live his life? When was he supposed to breathe? When was he supposed to enjoy his life and do all the things he loved so much? When was he supposed to sing and delight people?

That’s why Art put on something a bit more classy, wondered why he was putting on a tie and then left the house without a proper meal in his stomach. He was back in Bleecker Street, avoiding walking into people standing and talking in small groups on the curb. Art lit a cigarette as he surveyed the crowds getting ready for a nice evening out. This time he was not aimlessly wandering the street and looking for a bright face. This time he had a clear goal. There was this folk club , stubbornly putting on musicians that wanted to play Dylan’s early folk style. Art figured, there must be one musician there who could full fill Art’s needs.

The lights were dimmed and the many bodies filling the club made it hard to see much further ahead than a few inches. Staying on the sides against the wall, would probably be calmer, but he might miss some of the music. Going closer to the stage meant running the risk of being trampled. His desire to have a final attempt at his dream career with someone drove him towards the stage.

A little bit small, Art almost couldn’t see him at all. The guy on the stage seemed at odds with the rest of his surroundings. The mic set all the way down, the walls behind him a little bit grimy but in style and the wooden floor of the stage worn and draped in a red fluffy carpet. All that offset against the clean cut boy with the shorter than fashion hair and turtle neck jumper. He was nothing like the rest of the crowd; not in fashion, not in style, not fitting in any of the hip groups of youngsters making up the audience. He seemed so odd, Art was instantly fascinated with his appearance, his intricate fingerpicking style, deep lyrics and his wit. When the rest of the audience remained silent or continued the muffled conversations, Art was laughing heartily. He could see the faces turning away, whispering to each other as they rolled their eyes. He also saw the musician getting more nervous and uncomfortable and he left the stage long before he finished his set. A shame really, finally something and someone interesting was happening instead of all the Beatles and Dylan wannabees. 

Without thinking about it Art’s eyes followed the small dark figure off the stage. Like a little mouse he scurried off into the dark trying to escape the negative attention and scorn and trying to run away from his embarrassment and shame. Still reticent about a potential partner Art did not try to get backstage. Instead he remained standing in front of the stage staring into the darkness where the shadows were mysteriously moving around. All the people around him were wandering back to their tables and respective company. Art looked like a lonely statue sticking out from the crowd.

Even after an hour Art was still intrigued by the quiet thoughtful boy and decided to ask around to see if someone could tell him who that was. As always it’s easiest to start talking to your own friends if available, so finally Art too wandered back to his friends he incidentally stumbled upon earlier: “Did you see that guy play earlier?”

“Which one?”

Art searched for words to describe the boy, but didn’t come much further than: “…the small one.” It proofed enough description.

“Oh, Paul something…He was here a couple of months ago. Plays all right, bit pretencious.”

“You think?” Art mumbled.

Art didn’t really think of the performance as pretencious, he was really impressed. It seemed he was the only one since the rest of the group of people were nodding in agreement. On his own as usual. Should he abandon the group and see if he could have a talk with this guy, or should he remain quiet and let them all forget he was the only one liking him? They might not even realize he was gone, they all seemed so involved and busy with each other. Had this guy not played, Art would have been happily in a drunken conversation with one of his buddies. He was not, he was still musing about what he saw and heard. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. What was it that impressed him so much? Why did this guy grab his attention like this? Was it just the performance? Were it the songs? Or was it the guy’s off beat appearance? Art liked off beat; it showed individuality, a mind thinking for him- or herself who wore their character in their style and weren’t ashamed of it. All the flogs of anonymous faces with the same hair, the same clothes, the same taste in music, art, culture, everything bored Art to pieces. It was so lame and mindless and unambitious. They all looked like they could be turned off and would be when the new trends and fashions were on the rise, and they always were. So fallible that style. Why would anyone want to lie about who he was?

Art slumped back into his seat observing the smiling faces pandering to what they already knew. Their hippie values, drenched in cigarettes, pot and acid, lending them their haughty attitudes. They thought they knew Dylan and fathomed his lyrics and measured every artist against, not Dylan’s standards, but rather his image. That was the only real reason why this one guy with his guitar didn’t measure up in their eyes. It seemed, only Art realized that.

***

Paul packed his guitar up, his head filled with doubt. Something had changed, he must have done something wrong. The room had been restless, agitated maybe even. Paul thought he had been only a few inches from being booed off the stage. This performance was not a pleasant experience, maybe he wasn’t a songwriter after all. He could see how being a musician could easily mean a difficult, unsure existence. Was he up for that? How badly did he want to be a professional musician? How bad would it be to be an English teacher? How much regret would he have choosing one or the other? All important questions Paul didn’t know the answer to, nor did it inform the path he should choose. It made him feel restless and a bit sorry for himself. 

He should choose the safe road and become an English teacher, because he wasn’t sure he would be able to face failure after failure. He should choose his passion and become a professional musician, because he wasn’t sure he would forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. Which one was worse or which one was best?

Paul put his baseball cap on and pulled it all over his eyes. He just wanted to get out, run from this failure and hide in his bedroom. He couldn’t face any of them, nor did he want to hear their scathing remarks. He crawled deeper into his collar, making himself even smaller than he already was. He dragged the guitar off the table and tried to slip out of the club unseen. No success.

“Hey,” where you slinking off to? A probing voice called after him.

Paul quickly came up with an excuse: “Need to catch a bus.”

Then his path was blocked. Paul lifted his guitar up in front of him as if he wanted to use it as a shield. He shouldn’t look scared, that was when you got in trouble. He peered from under his cap hoping his nervousness wasn’t playing all over his face.

Then a voice rang out from the dark: “Leave him alone! “ sounded familiar, no it couldn’t be.

Paul turned his head cautiously to see if his ears were deceiving him. The boy slid off his bar stool and it almost looked as if he glided towards them. Paul realized too late that he was gaping, his mouth hanging open. It really was him, blond halo of curls and blue sparkling eyes and everything. Surely, Paul was dreaming.

“That you can’t distinguish quality doesn’t mean his music was bad,” the boy continued.

The other boy huffed: “Hah! Typical for you to defend him. Loser and loser, a perfect match.”

The boy waved the comment away, grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him out of the club. Paul was breathless when they were finally out on the street and by themselves. The boy strode ahead, Paul had no idea where to but he followed him nonetheless. It was not as if Paul was in bad shape, he still played his game of baseball, but Paul had trouble keeping up. The boy meandered around people, street lights and around corners at quite a speed. As a matter of fact, he was walking so fast Paul started to wonder if he was just trying to shake him off. Just as Paul was about to give up following him, the boy suddenly stopped causing Paul to run into him.

“Wow!” he exclaimed as he caught Paul, both hands on Paul’s shoulders.

When did he turn around? How did he turn around so quickly? A stream of cursing people narrowly stepping aside avoiding collision. 

“All right?” the boy inquired.

Paul’s mouth was hanging open again.

Since no answer seemed to come, the boy continued: “I’m Artie Garfunkel.”

“I know.”

That Artie Garfunkel didn’t expect. It kept him baffled long enough for Paul to explain without further question.

“I saw you years ago…in some talent show…about fifteen years ago.”

“Wow, really!?”

“Yeah, you were really good.”

“Thanks, but you remembered me from fifteen years ago?”

Paul could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. He just realized how weird that sounded. He wisely decided not to tell him he basically idolized him for fifteen years.

“Maybe we could do something together,” Paul boldly suggested.

Maybe the wounds of failed partnerships were not healed yet, or maybe it now scared Art more than he thought. Instead of jumping at it, he jumped right off it, mumbled some excuse and ran off, leaving a confused and frustrated Paul behind on the streets.

The guitar hanging from Paul’s shoulder seemed heavier than usual, slipped off and bounced off the curb side. Paul barely registered it. He had been looking forward to this evening so badly. He had been working for this evening so hard. Now everything fell apart. Not only had his performance not gone to plan, he also got rejected by the only guy he ever wanted to work with. He had been rejected by his dreams, or robbed of his dreams. More than ever, Paul didn’t feel like being grown up; nothing went to plan and none of his dreams came true. The doors on a career as a professional musician were now slammed shut and Paul had to go build a life like any other disillusioned adult.


	4. A Peculiar Man

Art wasn’t really listening to the introduction of his new colleague, he was trying to figure out where he had seen his face before. He noticed how the new man’s eyes kept wandering to him, quickly looking away when Art returned the gaze. It must have been a few years back, during a night out. Had they been intimate, or did Art just flirt with him? Or did nothing at all happen? Was he rejected? Art knew they met before, but he couldn’t place his face nor remember where and when they met. I couldn’t have been much, Art would remember. Now that they were colleagues, Art had enough time to find out how, where and when they met.

After the introduction by the head master to his new colleagues Paul found himself shaking hands and being introduced on a more personal level. He was going to be one of three English teachers within a team of about fifty teachers overall, of which Art Garfunkel turned out to be one. Paul wasn’t sure if he should be excited or awkward about it. Never before had there been an opportunity to work with him, something Paul always had wanted. Yet, the rejection from about two years ago, and his very personal revelation to Art, made it very awkward.  
Paul wasn’t really paying attention to all the new names and faces; he was too busy figuring out how to deal with Art Garfunkel. Should he pretend they never met or should he own up? Maybe here and now was not the time, maybe he could keep it neutral, somehow. Before Paul realized it he was shaking his hand. 

The head master introduced them: “This is Art Garfunkel, he teaches maths. Paul is going to teach English.”

Art nodded: “Yes, I heard,” he smiled while he shook hands and put his left hand on Paul’s.

Paul smiled back till he was ushered on to meet the rest of the team. Art quietly followed the introduction as Paul slowly made his way through the room.

Art was nudged in his ribs by his best friend in the team: “What you think of him?”

Art shrugged: “Can’t say yet really. Only just met him.”

Sam continued: “I heard he was sent away from his last job.”

That was a surprise to Art: “Really!? He doesn’t really look like a rebel to me.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “Apparently he has his own way of dealing with things. I heard he can be quite stubborn.”

Paul intrigued Art more and more: “Hmmm, really?” he mumbled.

Sam sniggered: “Maybe he can become your new accomplice.”

Art turned to look at Sam: “What you’re talking about?”

Sam shook his head: “I’m not going to defend you forever, Art. I have a family to think of and…well…your temper can cause a lot of trouble.”

“My temper!?” Art huffed indignant.

Sam shook his head again walking away.

Maybe it wasn’t even such a crazy idea. It was certainly worth finding out why Paul was sent away from his previous job, if it was true.

It was late in the afternoon and most of the teachers were getting ready to go home. Paul would start a week later so he could get used to his colleagues, the new students and the new school. It also gave him the opportunity to prepare. He would start out taking over a class from an elder colleague who was about to retire. If everything was to a mutual satisfaction, Paul would be offered a steady job and take more classes. Paul knew, this time he couldn’t afford rubbing colleagues the wrong way, he needed this job. He had a responsibility now he had a baby, a family to provide for. Paul always expected it to be daunting, but he had not been prepared for married life and now the baby was here, it turned out it was another hurdle on top of an existing one. Being married and being a young father was not easy.

Paul was disturbed from his quiet stream of thoughts. It was the head master, coat in hand, obviously ready himself to go back home.

“You wouldn’t mind me going home, you know the way out?”

“Oh,” Paul wasn’t actually sure he remembered the way back to the front doors, but a voice rang out before Paul could say so:

“I can show him out.”

“Ah, Garfunkel…wonderful…” doubt in the head master’s voice. “Just show him out, no Tom foolery.”

Art nodded: “Don’t worry, I’ll save trouble for a later date.”

The head master laughed politely as he looked Art over; it was clear he didn’t think it was funny at all. Then before he strode out of the door he turned to Paul: “Welcome to the team.”  
Art waited till the head master was out of sight. Paul looked like a little dark mouse constantly scurrying back into the dark.

“You’re nervous, huh?”

Paul barely looked up at him when he gave a barely audible reply.

“I expected you to be a music teacher,” Art tried to keep the conversation going.

This time Paul’s reply was audible: “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re a good guitar player. Because you write your own music,” Art mused having remembered where he knew Paul’s face from.

“I’m an English teacher,” Paul said.

Art decided to ignore Paul’s last contribution: “Do you still write?”

Paul sighed as he dug out his keys: “Listen, can we do this conversation another time? I need to get home.”

Art shrugged: “Sure, no problem. Where you live?”

Paul sighed again while he picked up his bag: “New Jersey.”

“Wow, all the way in New Jersey?”

“What do you mean ‘all the way in New Jersey’?”

“Don’t they have high schools in New Jersey?”

Paul gave Art an unimpressed look, sighed again and started to walk towards the doors.

“I used up all the high schools in New Jersey. Look, I need to go home, so could you kindly show me the way out?”

Art did as he was asked in silence. So, Sam heard right. Interesting.

***

Paul was fiddling with baby Olive’s blankets while his wife Joanna looked on in irritation.

“No, Paul, you’re making a mess of her bed.”

Paul pulled an annoyed look and dropped the blankets: “You do it then,” he suggested already making his way to his wife to take over his daughter. These days Paul and Joanna didn’t seem to agree about anything anymore and Paul was getting increasingly frustrated and feeling trapped. When he married her, this was not what he had in mind. Maybe it was his fault, maybe he thought too light about it, maybe he did have to compromise more, but compromising was not one of Paul’s strong characteristics. Paul played with his baby daughter whom he adored while Joanna redid her bed. She still held a soft spot for Paul, to see him like this, playing with his daughter, but he didn’t make things easy for them. Still, Joanna had a strong will and would not let Paul overwhelm her.

“Paul,” she cautiously started, “I think we should find a babysitter.”

Paul snapped to attention: “What!? Why!?”

“Because someone has to look after her when I’m working.”

Paul stopped playing giving his wife his full attention, or rather to start an argument: “No, you can’t go working, you have a baby to look after."

“That’s why we need a babysitter,” Joanna tried to keep calm.

Paul shook his head: “No, there’s no need for you to work. You should be home to look after Olive.”

“I want to work, Paul.”

“Why? I make enough money.”

“I want to work, because I don’t want to get behind on my colleagues. Also, I didn’t study to throw it all away.”

This was another issue on top of so many issues Paul and Joanna hadn’t manage to work through. Paul also knew how strong willed Joanna could be and he wasn’t sure he could deal with that. Times were definitely changing, more women had careers, less women stayed home to look after the children. All those things that used to ensure Paul he would be of use slowly disappeared or changed in ways Paul didn’t feel he was equipped to deal with. And this relationship had started to feel suffocating to Paul. He just had no idea how to deal with it. Instead of finding a solution or talking it out, he left the room with his daughter on his arm leaving an exasperated Joanna behind.

***

Art’s thoughts weren’t on the homework he was correcting. It seemed his new colleague made a deeper impression on Art than he cared to admit. They hardly talked, couldn’t even be called ‘exchanging pleasantries’. Art hardly knew anything about him, but something about him, something in his eyes, that sadness, it struck Art. It was also something he said, for the little he said, which told Art he wasn’t a regular guy. He wasn’t exactly making a plan, deciding to improvise did not qualify as a plan, but he did promise himself to have a proper conversation with Paul, as soon he started working. Art was suddenly looking forward to the next week. To his own surprise, he was really looking forward to seeing Paul again, getting to know him. Maybe, once they knew each other better, they could even play music together. Oh, was that it? Was he secretly still hoping to find his perfect partner to make beautiful music with and astonish the crowds with their amazing harmonies? Quite it Art, that boat had sailed long ago.

***

The school, the teachers and the students were largely the way Paul expected them to be; the school respectable, the teachers disciplined and set in their ways and the students were unruly, chaotic and not sure what to make of their futures. Art didn’t stick out when it came to discipline; he was always prepared, always immaculate in his work and passionate about maths and teaching it to his students often encouraging them to go a bit further than the full length, usually to the dismay of those students. No, there were other things like his out-of-school activities, going out till late in the night to listen to music, and the way he worked with other colleagues, demanding more than was really necessary, according to his colleagues. Ironically, a lot of the things Paul got fired for in his previous job. However, with Art in the maths department and Paul in the English department, they didn’t get to work together all that often. It also meant the teachers were used to stick to their own group of teachers during breaks. At first Paul did nothing to change that, he simply followed his elderly colleague to the table of language minded teachers. Art let him the first week, but in the second week he grabbed his chance the moment Paul entered the teachers’ break room.

“Hey,” he started clasping Paul’s arm and pulling him into another direction: “Why don’t you sit with us today? We haven’t gotten the chance to get to know you yet.”

Paul, surprised by Art’s action, didn’t resist, followed him like a sheep and sat down in the seat that was shown to him. He had no idea why he followed instructions without thinking about it; it was nothing like him. After years of being bullied, pulled and dragged about for years without it coming to anything, Paul had enough of it. He was a grownup now, he could make his own decisions, he was perfectly able to make his own mistakes and he’d like to make them himself. However, with Art around, all that seemed off the table and Paul was back to obediently carrying out orders without thought nor protest. It was fine, he was only asked to have his lunch in a different company than he had gotten used to. To be frank, Paul had hoped Art would take the first step, because he was still too new, too self-conscience and too embarrassed to approach him.

“We met a few years back. Paul was playing, his own songs. He was good,” Art started the conversation.

“Oh, you knew each other already?”

Paul was just about to take a bite from his sandwich. Even though the bread wasn’t in his mouth yet, Art beat him to correcting the inquirer.

“No, can’t say we really know each other.”

“You just said you met a few years back.”

This time Paul beat Art to it: “We didn’t stay in contact. You can’t even really say that we met.”

“I defended you!”

“Yeah, well, then you ran out of me. Also, don’t make it sound as if you prevented me from being beaten up. You’re no hero.”

“Woa Garfunkel. It seems you met your match.”

The rest of the teachers remained quiet observing this strange theatre. Art managed to squeeze in an irritated: “Oh shut up!” before taking a defiant bite from his sandwich.

For a while both Paul and Art remained silent eating their lunch while the other teachers went on complaining about their students, how much work they had to do and the low wages they received for it and complaining about colleagues who weren’t there to defend themselves.

Out of nothing Art restarted the conversation: “Do you still write?”

Paul cautiously glanced at Art who sat relaxed munching on his third sandwich. He looked Art over trying to figure out what game he was playing. Eventually he answered: “Yeah…”

“I mean songs,” Art clarified.

Paul shrugged: “Not much.”

“You still play, though?”

Paul shrugged again as he hummed a negative.

“Shame, you were good. I was curious what you’d be writing and playing now. The music scene has changed, it’s all so much harsher now. It could do with a musician like yourself.”

Paul wondered where all that praise suddenly came from. He could have done with that years ago. Right now, it was wasted on him.

“I’m not a musician,” Paul corrected partly trying to end the conversation and partly trying to justify where and what he was now.

“An English teacher?” Art incredulously informed, “Is that what you are?”

Paul picked up his tray as he got up: “Yes, I’m an English teacher. I don’t have time to fool around and try and be some music hero.”

Art could tell Paul was feeling sorry for himself when he said it. He could tell there were a lot of lost young boy dreams and possibly an adult life that did not quite live up to Paul’s expectations and hopes. Art recognized that feeling; he had struggled and sometimes still struggled with the banality of his life, with the feeling he was not fulfilling his potential and that he was missing out on something. He could see that same pain in Paul’s eyes. He could see it in how Paul carried himself, how he dumped his garbage and tray and walked away from a difficult conversation. Once the door closed behind Paul and he was out of sight, Art turned back towards his food. He was surprised to see how much he had eaten of it since he wasn’t really that hungry. A chance on a care free evening making music seemed far away. His hopes Paul would take the bait had somewhat tempered, but he was sure the will was still there, he just had to encourage him in the right way. Thoughtfully Art collected all his waste, slowly getting himself ready to go back to class. He’d put his plan together when he was home.

***

Art didn’t always live on his own, as a matter of fact he was married. He wasn’t sure why though he remembered telling himself it was because he loved her. In a way that was true, he did love her, he just didn’t want to spend too much time with her. Married life wasn’t quite what Art expected; it required certain qualities which, to his own dismay, he lacked. Yes, possibly it was just because he was a man and men don’t talk about their feelings. His wife however, didn’t accept that as an excuse. About two years into their marriage Art accepted a job back home in New York, away from his wife and the place they tried to make home. He rented a small apartment and over time he not only spend week days there, but also the weekends. It stung a little when he found out his wife was cheating on him, especially since he had been faithful. After a good talk, over the telephone, they decided to have an open relationship and see how that suited them. It meant, they were both free to have boy- and girlfriends, but they were still man and wife. In the end the truth was that the marriage was pretty much over, Art believed. He was more intimate with strangers than with his wife. He hadn’t even seen his wife for nearly two months. He did talk to her, on the phone, even told her about Paul. She asked him if he was his latest boyfriend to which Art truthfully answered that he wasn’t sure, maybe more of a good friend. He also told her about their frosty interaction and his hope he could play music with him. She even helped him with his plan to defrost Paul.  
This was going to take much longer than Art hoped. His wife told him to take it slow. Start with an apology, then become friends, invite him to your place or go visit him at his place. Only once they were friends suggest to try and sing a song together. Don’t rush it, you might scare him off. Besides, you don’t want to come across as desperate. No, his wife was right, he didn’t want to come across as desperate. He wasn’t desperate.

Funny that. The call to his wife had been a mandatory one and not one he looked forward to. In the end they talked for nearly two hours mapping out the plan which they dubbed ‘Operation Sounds of Silence‘ for the fact Paul didn’t seem very interested in neither talking to Art nor making anymore music. The first step would be an apology. Art also decided he wanted to do this in private, no prying eyes, no judgements from their colleagues or students. Just a quiet explanation why he ran out of Paul. That was the tricky part; Art hadn’t actually figured out for himself why he suddenly took off.

That night Art had trouble going to sleep rolling around in bed thinking of how to approach Paul. He ran through several scenes and ideas, dismissing one after another and starting from the top. Why was he so nervous about this? It wasn’t as if he had never done this before; chatting up people was one of his specialties. It also became harder to convince himself it was about a childhood dream, because that childhood dream never included Paul. Art just wanted to be the Everly Brothers with whoever was good enough to keep up with him. This time, the dream not only included harmonizing, but also things that had nothing to do with music. Art wanted to feel the warmth of Paul’s body, the muscles moving under his skin, the texture of his skin. Art wanted to know what he smelled like, what he tasted like, how it felt to be around him. He wanted to know what he liked, loved, disliked and hated. He wanted to know what made him giggle, laugh, pout and cry. He wanted to find out how to provoke any of these emotions out of Paul. All those thoughts scared Art and he almost called off the whole operation.

He lay in bed wide eyed and wide awake. It was never meant to be this nerve wrecking, was it?

***

Paul leant on the side of the crib as he gazed down at his young daughter. He would rather stand there than be in bed with his wife. They had another argument that evening in which things got rather heated. In the end it was Joanna who left the living room, slamming door and everything. Paul could hear her storming up the stairs still cursing. He could hear her frantic footsteps to the baby room where her motions finally calmed down. Paul remained downstairs long enough till he was sure she had gone to bed. He wondered if he should sleep on the couch for the night, not a pleasant prospect since the couch was rather uncomfortable for lying on. He went upstairs to get a spare blanket and pillow, but ended up in the baby room.

Paul poured his heart out to his baby daughter who seemed to be listening attentively. He told her how his new job was just as boring as the one he had before. He told her how his colleagues were just as stuffy as the ones he had before, well except for one. He told her how Art Garfunkel, the boy he admired in secret for years, irritated him and set his teeth on edge, but how he at the same time also seemed to be the only one with some sense and be the only one with the same insane focus on detail. He asked her if he should talk to him, get to know him better and ignore all the small irritating habits, or if he should ignore him all together with the risk of regretting it for the rest of his life. What was wise? What should he do?

When his daughter was asleep he went to his study to pack his bag for the next day. After that he sat behind his desk for hours staring at the walls while he mused about his early memories, his dreams, his attempts at making them real and the day they seemingly died a silent death. Paul could still see the grey coat and the blond afro top disappearing around a corner. He could still feel the emptiness when it was all said and done. He remembered how heavy his guitar felt and how far away the bus stop seemed. That night Paul cleared out his old desk shoving loose papers and a notebook with scribbled songs and ideas into a cardboard box, on top he threw his old scrapbook, some pages sticking together hiding teenage secrets. Old high school yearbooks also disappeared into the box and some photo’s of old class mates whom Paul hadn’t seen nor talked to for years. The box and his guitar were moved to a small storage room. Paul only opened that door when he moved into his new house, with his new wife. He didn’t check what was in the box; he simply moved it from the small storage room to his new bigger attic. The box was stored away with all of Paul’s other childhood memories. Maybe one day, when he was grey and old and had more perspective, he would find the box and unpack it and laugh at his youthful scribbles.

When his daughter was born he took the guitar down from the attic. He thought he could play her songs, he even put new strings on the guitar. He didn’t play it yet, because she was so young and still needed a lot of sleep. He didn’t play it yet, because he didn’t have the heart, he wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to. The guitar was right next to him, tucked in-between the wall and the desk. Paul’s fingers stroked the case, as if he wanted to remind himself how it felt. Art asked him if he still played and Paul told him he was an English teacher, not a musician. Yeah, that was who he was. He should read his daughter poetry and teaching her the finer points of English grammar instead of playing her songs on his guitar. He was a fool for forgetting what he was, for trying to be someone else, in a life that didn’t suit him, in a marriage which was slipping through his fingers. Was Art the answer? Paul believed for most of his teenage years he was. In his twenties he revived that belief and then he lost it at the hands of his idol. Wasn’t he too old for this dreaming anyway? Why was he still lost? Shouldn’t he know by now what he wanted to do and who he wanted to be? No, not Elvis Presley, not even one of the Everly Brothers, an English teacher. Stupid childish dreams!

***

Paul poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table in the teachers’ room. He was one of only five or six people around, all other teachers were in their respective classes. He rubbed his hands in his face trying to wake himself up and wipe the sleep off of his face. He didn’t sleep much, sat in his study turning thoughts over in his head till he saw the first morning light filtering through the curtains. Only then he realized he hadn’t slept, but morning was there and he had to get going in only one hour time.

He sat there as colleagues disappeared to their offices, his cup of coffee cooling down and his tiredness still there. He sat staring into nothingness when Art came wandering in looking just as tired as Paul felt. Paul couldn’t help muttering: “Oh god, not now…”

Art turned, empty cup in one hand, coffeepot in the other: “What was that?”

“Nothing….I mean good morning.”

Art didn’t turn, didn’t even move, he just stood staring down at Paul, not even a ‘good morning’ back.

So Paul looked back up at him: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

When nothing happened Paul reburied his face in his hands: “Why can’t you be normal and just say ‘good morning’ back or something?”

Art noticed Paul looked as tired as he felt. He didn’t say ‘good morning’, instead he turned back to the coffee pouring it in his cup. He put the cup down on the table next to Paul.

“You want some more coffee?” he asked. “…and good morning. You look like you didn’t sleep very well tonight.” 

Paul suddenly stood up, coffee spilling on the table: “You know, I don’t really want to do this right now, okay?”

Art remained seated calmly nodding: “Okay. Talk later?”

***

It was as if his students used his exhaustion as an excuse to riot. Keeping a class of teenagers under control was a challenge at the best of times, but that morning Paul just couldn’t get them to settle down and do as he asked them to. Both of his classes had been trying and Paul was glad to be back in his little office. Because he was the last addition and awaiting retirement of one of his colleagues, Paul didn’t have his office near the other teachers’ offices, but on the other side of the building. Paul suspected it originally wasn’t even an office, but rather a broom closet, it was that small; his desk and a few shelves only just fitted in it.

Paul sat back in his chair closing his eyes enjoying the relative peace, a half eaten lunch in front of him. He was nearly asleep when a voice startled him. In his shock he quickly sat up knocking his coffee all over the desk. Barely awake time made not much sense to Paul, nor did normal proceedings and he only vaguely registered a voice talking to him and hands with paper napkins wiping his desk clean. Paul only managed to clear his head when he realized someone was kneeling in front of him.

“I think you should call in sick,” the voice of an angel told him.

“No,” Paul disagreed: “Not I’m not call sick no.”

“Look at you, you can’t stand in front of a class like that.”

Paul sighed, maybe the voice was right and begrudgingly he agreed: “Yeah, you’re right, I can’t teach like this. Right now I don’t even speak English.”

The voice laughed then the world slowly faded out.

 

Paul lazily opened his eyes not yet seeing anything. For a little while he lay there slumbering, half dreaming half thinking. He stretched to wake his muscles, yawning as a hunger took hold of him he shook the rest of the sleep off. Only now he realized he wasn’t in his own bedroom. Confused he sat up looking around. Where was he? How did he end up here? Paul tried to find his last memory, the last location he remembered being at, his last activity. School! The last thing he remembered was being in his office in school. Was he still in school, in the nurse’s room? No, the room looked too homely. Paul carefully put his legs out of bed his toes tentively feeling the floor. There was warm carpet under his feet. He stood up crooked, he had to steady himself against the wall. Slowly he made his way out of the room. It soon became clear he was in someone’s house. He must be on the first floor. There were two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Paul took the stairs down. It came out in a small hallway, some coats hanging from a rack, including Paul’s coat. Ahead there was a small kitchen, Paul could see that through the only open door. There were three more doors on either side of the hallway. Judging by the position of the stairs the most interesting door was the one on Paul’s right. He pushed the door handle gingerly down and pushed the door open. Soft yellow light slipped out of the room. Paul stuck his head into the room to see a couch against the opposite wall and the familiar blond afro resting on one of the cushions. Art shifted his gaze from the tv to Paul and immediately pushed himself into a sitting position.

‘Hey, you’re up,” he chirped.

“Yeah,” Paul’s voice sounded unsure.

“Couldn’t get your address out of you properly so I brought you here. This is my flat, by the way.”

Paul was still not entirely sure: “I see,” was the only thing he said as he looked around still standing in the door.

Art stood up and stretched: “Want something to eat? I’m kinda hungry?”

He walked to the door on the left of Paul and disappeared into the kitchen. He stuck his head back into the living room: “I’m afraid I don’t have much food to offer and I’m no cook, but I can heat up some Chinese I have left from yesterday.”

Paul had wandered further into the living room taking his surroundings in. The walls were covered in bookcases, which were filled with books and LP’s. Somewhere in the middle of the rubble Paul recognized a tape machine. In the back was a small desk covered in papers and even more books, though this time maths books, Paul recognized some of the covers he had seen in school.

“Paul, Chinese?”

Paul nodded absentmindedly.

“Sit down wherever you want.”

Paul turned back to the sitting area. In front of the couch was a small coffee table covered in yet more books, a paper and what looked like all that was needed to roll a joint. Paul sat down in a chair directly facing the tv. There was a movie on he had already seen so instead Paul studied Art’s living room a little more. There was an ashtray delicately balanced on the back of the couch leaning against the wall. The hard service the ashtray was resting on was a book. Art sure had enough books. Paul took a backwards look at one of the shelves and read the titles he could read. The books ranged from adventure books to character studies, from philosophical explorations to historical explorations, from biographies to scientific studies and many other genres. Paul wondered if he actually read all those books.

After a lot of noise and smells, not all of them good, Art reappeared with two plates of steaming hot food.

“There wasn’t really enough for two, so I boiled some extra rice. Not sure I did that right? If it’s inedible, we can always order a pizza.”

“I’m sure it’s all right,” Paul assured taking the plate from Art.

“We have to eat right here, I don’t have a diner table. Don’t have much of a use for it on my own.”

Paul didn’t react, but concentrated on the food. He was so hungry, he didn’t really care the food wasn’t warmed through properly and the rice really wasn’t cooked properly.

Art took a few bites, stopped and watched Paul shoving the food into his mouth. “You don’t have to pretend the food is any good.”

Paul returned the look as he chewed: “I’m hungry; I don’t really care.” He looked down at his half empty plate: “You’re right, this really isn’t very good.”

Art laughed a short sigh and pulled Paul’s plate away: “I’ll order pizza.”

“Hey, I was eating that!” Paul protested in jest.

“I can’t have you die in my house, it’s suspicious.”

Paul now laughed too: “Yeah, getting rid of a body in this city is not easy.”

“No, exactly. I don’t have a garden I can burry you in and cutting you up to be brought out in the thrash is too messy. I’d be cleaning the floor for days.”

“It’s also a lot of work.”

“Yeah, I don’t have the time for that.”

Art disappeared in the kitchen again, by the sound of it, he just dumped the plates in the sink. A few minutes later Paul could hear him ordering pizza on the telephone.

When he returned Paul was looking at his books, reading titles, pulling some of them out to have a quick look inside. Art watched him without saying a word, but Paul apparently sensed he had returned.

“Did you read all these books?”

“No, not yet, but I’m working on it.” Art let Paul move from book to book wondering what he was thinking. Nothing more came from him, he just scanned the shelves one by one, occasionally pulling a book out to have a look at the cover and reading the summary or index. He put all the books back where he found them. An enigma this one, Art thought. There was that serious, somewhat melancholic, look on his face which he seemed to wear most of the time. Art was fairly good at judging characters and he already spotted a keen mind, constantly churning something over in that dark unreachable head of his. That was not hard, most people would spot that about Paul Simon. What most people probably missed was a bright, observant sense of humour, a little bit biting, a whole lot self-deprecating, poking fun at his own shortcomings and the situations it caused. Seeing the humour of it while secretly also feeling sorry for himself. Art appreciated that sort of humour, it was the kind he himself liked to practice. It was the kind that made him laugh the most.

Art watched Paul and Paul ignored Art reading every title of every book in the room. This situation was funny to Paul, he felt less embarrassed and uncomfortable than he thought he would. It was all right not to talk. It was all right to explore the small living room in silence. Art didn’t seem to mind, though Paul could feel his eyes watching him. This was a strange situation; Paul still wasn’t exactly sure why he was there or how he got there. It was late too, Joanna was probably wondering where he was. He should give her a call, let her know he was all right and not coming home this night. He wasn’t actually sure Art would let him stay. He was remarkably friendly to him, even after Paul snapped at him.

Art raised his eyebrows when Paul faced him.

“You live here on your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Girlfriend? ….Or boyfriend?”

“No. A wife, but she lives in Michigan.”

When Paul looked confused Art clarified: “We have an open relationship. Which means that she lives in Michigan humping the neighbour and I live here humping….uh….”

“Charming,” Paul reacted in a sarcastic voice. He looked alarmed when he realized Art hadn’t finished his sentence. Maybe better he didn’t stay at Art’s.

“Afraid I’ll try something?”

Once Paul thought about it, not really actually, so he just shrugged.

“When will the pizza be here?”

“In a few minutes.”

Art sat down on the couch, digging the remote control out after he sat on it. The ashtray dangerously wobbling. Art made himself comfortable again: “Sit down wherever you want,” he invited Paul.

“Did I freak you out? I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to. I’m more interested in what you’re doing musically, anyway.”

“I told you, I’m not doing anything.”

Art studied Paul’s body language as he said it, as he stood there, eyes wide, he suddenly looked nervous and the silence seemed to make him even more on edge.

“Shame,” Art finally said.

Paul shuffled a little closer to the chair to sit down again. This time the silence was pressing on Paul, though he was also afraid of what Art might say next. 

Art broke the silence: “We could play together, in private. Just for fun.”

Paul looked briefly up and flashed him a nervous smile.

Art quickly corrected himself: “I mean making music.”

Paul, now seated, was playing with his fingers, not looking at Art. Something in him still wanted to. His deep rooted believe he was no good stopped him accepting the suggestion.

Art tried again: “I would love to lend my voice to your songs. You’re a good songwriter.”

Paul, not believing Art actually remembered any of his songs, quipped: “Yeah, right. Do you even remember any of my songs?”

“Yeah,” his eyes glazed over as he tried to remember the melody to one particular song: “One of them went something like this.”

Art hummed a few lines of what he thought he remembered from that evening a few years ago.

Paul seemed stunned, his cheeks pink. Art only noticed after finishing that Paul’s gaze was fixed on him.

“Was that right?” he wondered.

Paul’s mouth opened, but he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He recognized the tune as one of his own. Art didn’t sing it quite right, but after so long, he remembered the main tune of it. It also gave Paul a jolt to hear one of his own melodies be sung with that angel’s voice. Now he was sure; he wanted it!

“I could bring my guitar one day,” he boldly suggested.

The unexpected suggestion and turnaround took Art by surprise. Instead of the delight he had planned to show, and which he thought would be easy to show, he displayed a slight shock.

Their eyes met as Paul awaited his answer. A smile broke out on Art’s face. Result!

 

Waiting for their pizzas at first they had trouble finding a start to a conversation. They took off safely discussing the school they worked at, how Paul was finding it, offset against Art’s experiences over the years. Polite conversation in which Paul compared the school to other schools he worked at, while Art gave advise how to go about certain things and who to approach if he needed something. Art was still curious about why Paul had left so many schools already. He was biding his time, waiting till they felt comfortable enough with each other that they would talk freely about things like that, or problems in the past. Paul was careful, weighing every word before he let it pass his lips. Art wasn’t yet sure if it was because he didn’t quite trust Art yet, or that was just the way he talked, as if every word had to matter. As if he didn’t want to spoil any words on things better left alone, forming tight sentences, economic but never failing to hit the target. Art liked how precise he was.

Paul started to feel like a kid in a candy shop. Now he was scared Art wasn’t going to live up to his expectations. He concluded soon Art was not a regular guy. Had his own way with words, sometimes bending even breaking sentences to fit his romantic way of expressing himself. He also had some strong ideas about teaching, about the state of the American educational system, and he had his own way of dealing with every-day-challenges. Art was nothing like Paul once imagined. It was impossible to imagine a man like that. Paul was fascinated with his view on the world and the intricate detail with which Art analysed and dissected problems. His words in thoughtful slow ideas, opinions and some solutions slowly slipping out. 

They talked till Art’s doorbell rang and the pizzas were there. Art offered him so cold beer, which Paul refused. Then he could have some chilled coke, or water. Then they ate their pizza in peace and quiet, both pretending to watch the tv. Both glancing at each other, smiling awkwardly when they caught each other stare. There was an odd atmosphere building between them, not unpleasant, just odd. Art cleaned the pizza box away once they finished. Paul was about to excuse himself; it was late and they both had to work early in the morning, he’d better be off.

Art stopped that plan telling him it was late and he’d better try to lie down his head here. He would probably get a lot more sleep than if he drove home. Paul checked the clock, then his watch, confirming it was around midnight and he probably should get some more sleep.

“I’ll sleep here on the couch,” Art offered: “You can sleep in the bed.”

Paul rejected the offer at first till it was clear Art wasn’t going to accept a ‘No’. He could use the bathroom, Art was sure he had a new toothbrush he could use. Or a clean towel if he wanted to take shower. Art didn’t need to show the way, Paul already knew the way. Before ‘Good night’ they stood clumsily looking at each other. Paul looked Art over, feeling happy they finally really met, confused why it took so long. Art felt something new dawning on him, a strong emotion, somewhere between love and adoration. He couldn’t quite place it, didn’t know what it was or why it was, but it made him feel dizzy and feverish, yet so comfortably warm and safe. This was not just his new friend, but more. No, Art wasn’t in love, or was he?

“Good night,” a shy voice broke through the pink jumble of thoughts and emotions. Art’s voice was barely audible when he returned the greeting. In a daze he watched the door close behind Paul obscuring the view. He could hear his footsteps on the padded steps of the stairs and the wooden floor towards his bedroom.

This was something else and he desperately wanted to hold on to it.

To be continued.


	5. Words & Melodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul settles in his new school and becomes close friends with Artie. They start their music collaboration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter in this series that has been beta'd. Thanks Nofritari!

Suddenly everything was much easier. Paul regained control over his classes and got back to actually teaching. His concentration was a bit off; his mind kept wandering back to Art who was teaching a few floors higher up. The best way to deal with that was talking, so that was what Paul did. In one class he discussed a book, trying to get the students to think about the characters, the plot and what they thought the writer was trying to get across. In another class he talked about the history of English and put the students to work, figuring out the differences between American English and British English. Overall, it was a successful day. He got work done, he got students to learn something, and he got back on schedule for exams. He wondered how Art was doing. Was he also thinking of music once he put his students to work? Was he also thinking about last night?

Paul got himself an empty note book. It was going to inhabit his teacher’s bag and lay on his desk in class. It would get picked up when Paul got the time to write new songs or ideas for songs. It was good to be back, it was invigorating; new ideas flowed from his pen in rapid fashion. The music was in Paul’s head, he never learned to write music. It didn’t matter, the music was the easy part, the words needed working, which was what the note book was for. Paul liked how it looked like he was doing English, how easy it was to hide what he was really doing.

 

Art didn’t really think of the night before, because he wouldn’t let himself. He knew he wouldn’t have the discipline to concentrate on his work. He knew if he took time out to think about what happened and how it made him feel, his mind would soon drown in emotions and feelings he couldn’t control. So he made sure he was doing maths with the students, presenting mathematical problems and trying to solve them through discussion in the classroom. He made sure they explored every avenue, dissected every solution and wrote out every proof in detail. He did this in every class he had that day. He took the opportunity to explain new material, inching ahead of his schedule. His students would be more than sufficiently prepared, because their teacher was in love. Interesting concept.

Only in his office, with a fresh cup of coffee, to prepare the next day and some homework to correct, did his mind wander to the night before. He slept on the couch, very aware Paul was asleep above him in the bed. Art couldn’t suppress a smile nor the glint in his eyes. Life seemed so much brighter. Paul at least wanted to play music, maybe even play other games, which came as a surprise to Art. He was used to having to be subtle, drop little hints, see if the bait was taken. In this case Paul popped the question. Actually, he guessed Art’s sexual interest, didn’t shy away when Art made some innuendos; he didn’t give permission either. His reaction turned Art on, made him fantasize, made him giddy. It put him into motion, walking to the other side of the school where Paul’s office was. He wasn’t entirely sure Paul would be there, but since it was late in the afternoon, he sure didn’t have any classes. He might have gone home but if he was still there, not many people could disturb them. Even most of the teachers had gone home by now. Hopeful he hurried through the empty hallways, his footsteps echoing against the brick walls. It was very dark on the other end of the building making Art’s hopes evaporate. It was clear it had been a while since the last person had left, all the lights were off, all the doors were closed. Right at the end of the hallway was the door to Paul’s office, a small room where they used to keep paper, stationary, empty notebooks and fresh chalk. The team was at full capacity when Paul signed his contrac, so all offices were taken. This made it necessary to turn the small closet into an office and it was redecorated to fullfill that function. The idea was, once the old English teacher retired, the new one would not only take his job but also his office.

The door was closed, Art couldn’t detect any light coming out from under the door; the room didn’t have any windows. He was about to try the door handle and got a shock when the handle moved on its own volition. The door swung open to reveal Paul, bag in hand, coat on his arm. He nearly stepped into Art, instead he staggered backwards just as startled as Art. They both took a few moments to readjust their composure. To Art’s relief Paul beamed at him, it automatically pulled Art’s face into a grin.

“I was just on my way out,” Paul informed. “You’re going home too?”

Art’s face fell for a split second: “Oh,” his voice disappointed.

He quickly recovered and smiled: “I was hoping we could spend some more time together.”

“Sure,” Paul nodded, “but not tonight; I need to get home.”

“Oh,” Art once again failed to hide his disappointment.

“Unlike you, I still live with my wife and she expects me to come home. Especially since I didn’t at all last night.”

“Yeah,” Art understandingly whimpered. He followed Paul a few steps behind.

Paul saw the disappointment on his face. He wasn’t entirely sure what Art had hoped would happen, but he should have realized Paul needed to go home. He showed Paul a weak smile when Paul glanced at him again. He was still following Paul out of the school all the way to his car. Only after Paul threw his bag in the backseat and was ready to take place behind the steering wheel Art stayed a few steps away from the car.

Paul turned to Art before getting in: “Thanks for yesterday.”

Art nodded another weak smile.

Paul looked Art over one last time and then got in his car. Art was still standing there watching when Paul drove off the parking lot and disappeared out of sight. There was no real reason for Art to stay there, he could just as well go home. Thing was, he didn’t really want to go home without Paul. The empty apartment would just remind him of the sad state of his personal relations, especially the one with his wife. Worse even, it reminded him he wasn’t sure what he wanted from life in that area. He knew he was supposed to settle down and start a family. He knew he wasn’t supposed to entertain multiple intimate relations with different people with different genders. He sure couldn’t go ahead and chase after a married man with a young baby. That just wasn’t fair.

With his feet in the dirt, his toe stabbing out an imaginary cigarette, he stared forlorn into the distance. Nothing more than scabby buildings and dark grey roads. Never before had Art felt so lonely. What was he going to do this evening? Go out on his own? Nah, he wasn’t going to pick anyone up. Go home and watch TV? That didn’t seem that attractive either. Stay at school and do some more work? Why not, at least it would take his mind off things.

He cast a last melancholic look at where Paul’s car disappeared out of sight, turned and walked slowly back into the building. Only now he noticed it had gotten chilly. He pushed his hands deep into his jeans pockets, his shirt not giving him enough shelter from the wind. A lonely, dark figure moving towards a deserted grey school building. Art battled the depressing imagery with mathematical problems already going through his head.

***

Paul turned the key cautiously and tried to make no sound opening the front door. He didn’t feel like facing his wife explaining where he was last night. He could easily hide or forget to tell her about his new best friend or the funny fuzzy feeling he had just thinking about him. No, best he didn’t mention Art, he wasn’t actually sure he could hide how excited he was about this new friendship. Paul tried to sneak upstairs, but he was spotted.

“Where you going!?” her voice urgent.

Paul stopped halfway up the stairs, a disappointed sigh escaping him. He turned and went back down and into the kitchen taking his time. She stood at the work surface, in the middle of cooking, a knife in her hand, a partly cut vegetable in front of her. She looked expectantly at Paul.

“Well?”

Paul tried a smile to soften the situation, his wife still looked suspicious.

“Uh, yes,” he started scratching his head. “I didn’t come home last night.”

Joanna rolled her eyes: “Yes, I noticed. What do you have to say for yourself? Couldn’t you have called?”

Paul grimaced: “I forgot, sorry. I was at a colleagues place.”

Joanna bit her lip, studied his face, tried to sniff the faintest trace of perfume. 

“Yes?” She said as if she didn’t believe him. She repeated now confirming this time: “Yes…The headmaster called, if you got home all right. Of course I told him you didn’t, since you weren’t home at all. I suspected you were at your colleague’s place, since she was to bring you home.”

That situation Paul hadn’t considered yet; it seemed more natural. Should he go with it?

“No! He’s a guy, not a female. I’m not cheating on you, if that is what you think.” 

Joanna didn’t look convinced.

“You can call the headmaster and ask,” Paul suggested.

That did the trick, Joanna relaxed momentarily before tensing up again: “What happened? Why did you leave school early?”

Paul, who thought he was off the hook, was trying to escape again. Her prying eyes scanning his back.

“I didn’t sleep well the night before, I was tired. I nearly fainted in front of the class.”

Joanna’s eyes cast down as she remembered the night; they fought. Paul didn’t sleep in bed with her. She never really thought about it, assumed he slept on the couch. When she looked up Paul disappeared up the stairs.

***

It was so easy, so logical and natural, neither Paul nor Art had to think about it. As they became closer they readily found they shared a lot of interests, views and perfectionism. The first time Paul went to visit Art with his guitar they played and sang till one of the neighbours started pounding on the walls. Unlike past collaborators Paul was willing to slave over the vocals and harmonies and Art was patient and supporting when Paul was searching for the chords and melody, all in the name of music. They shared an unspoken rule that every line deserved the most attention till it was just right. At the same time they started working on bringing their voices together. 

To their delight their voices fitted together quite nicely and it didn’t take Art much prodding and convincing to take it a level higher and bring their pronunciations and timbre together. That was one of the things they were working on. Art was learning the songs Paul had written, writing harmonies for them and thinking out arrangements they would then try to record with Art’s old tape machines. Their ideas about music were fairly similar, but they had different ways of execution. It was then they started arguing finding out the other man was just as stubborn as themselves.

Paul was spending more time at Art’s than at home. They also started to leave school early to work at Art’s place on the preparations they needed to do for the next day at school. This way they had time left to work on their music, beit practicing or writing. Usually, they started with playing music, shaking the school business off and relaxing into the music. Sometimes they’d next launch into another session of vocal training, still preening on their harmonies while Paul was also learning to deliver stronger and steadier vocals. Other times Paul would show a new song to Art and they’d work on that, or Paul would go to work on a new song while Art was writing a harmony to an existing song. Most of the time they got so taken up by their music, they would forget time and forget to eat. Sleep usually automatically followed when sights blurred and they had trouble keeping their eyes open. Neither was very concerned about their regular job.

Paul felt happier than he had the last year. He was writing and playing music again, it made working his teacher job less exhausting and his overall existence bearable. It helped Art was a great motivator, he assured Paul the songs were good and encouraged him to keep going. Paul always was happiest when writing new music, now with Art around it basically gave him an extra spring in his step. He was still anxious about performing in public; the sour taste of his last and failed performance was still in his mouth. Art didn’t push him, only tried to paint an image of what it might be like, how wonderful it could be. The problem was, he couldn’t be sure it would be a success. He still wanted to get back on stage and sing for an audience again; he missed the applause and delight on people’s faces. He missed sharing that state of bliss and joy, so from time to time he stuck his toe in the water to see if Paul had changed his mind, if only a little. They could be so beautiful together.

Paul sat scribbling ideas on paper, completely engrossed by the act of writing. To Art he looked like, the rest of the world wasn’t there. Art finished work on the harmonies of a song. He sat up to talk to Paul, but stopped himself when he saw Paul completely emerged in a new song. He looked peaceful, for a change not melancholic and sad or worried. It warmed Art’s heart, especially since he’d gotten to know him as an insecure man. Insecurity which often cast Paul into depression. Of course the slow failure of his marriage didn’t help, nor did his perfectionistic and controlling nature. Art analysed that it all stemmed from that insecurity, the fear he didn’t matter in any way, the fear that the things he did didn’t matter in any way, and the crippling dread that nothing he did or was, was good enough. There was no need for Paul’s fears, Art thought. Paul was one of the brightest people he knew, a very talented musician and even a good English teacher. Art also knew that taking away those fears wasn’t going to be easy, because they were so deeply ingrained in Paul’s nature. Instead, the best thing Art could do, was stand by him, giving him the support he needed and ensuring and encouraging him. 

Art had been reflecting for quite a while and Paul still didn’t seem to have noticed. Art came around to the indescribable feeling he grew used to since he knew Paul. He cared for him deeply, wanted him to do well, wanted him to be happy and most importantly, wanted him around. Paul made Art’s life more complete, brighter, more interesting, but also more complicated and rougher. It didn’t take away from the love Art was feeling.

“What are you working on?” Art prodded, his voice soothing and calm.

He finally had Paul’s attention, eyes dark and wide, as if he was wondering where that voice suddenly came from. Paul looked down at the paper again, just words, no melodies. The melodies were in his head and the chords were in his fingers. If he picked up the guitar, it would come spilling out.

“I could never write songs like yours,” Art mused hoping Paul would join the conversation. “I tried, but the quality was poor, juvenile, silly little songs.”

He paused to give Paul a chance to react. When nothing came he decided on another strategy: “Wanna show me what you’ve got?”

Paul’s eyes were going over the paper and for a second Art thought he lost him.

Instead, Paul finally joined the conversation: “It’s nice to write songs. It’s as if…” Paul hesitated. He was clearly searching for the right words. 

“It’s as if they take…the worry from me. It lifts something, as if it solved a problem.” Paul appeared slightly confused. Art gave him all the time he needed to express his feelings.

Paul brow furrowed into an agitated frown: “Of course it never really solves anything…” 

When he faced Art, the negativity slid away: “Do you get that with singing?”

Art smiled and nodded. He pointed at the paper: “You want to show me?”

Reaching out to his guitar he replied: “Yeah, sure. It’s not finished yet, though.”

“That’s all right,” Art shrugged: “Maybe I can help finishing it.”

Paul unpacked his guitar with care, Art observed. Almost as if it was alive, a vulnerable baby. His fingers stroke along the body, like a lover caressing his muse. Art thought he would do that with his instrument if he had one. Hold on, he had an instrument, his vocal chords. He had to admit, he didn’t take that good care of his vocal chords with all his smoking.

Paul took a little time tuning his guitar while Art took the opportunity to pour himself a glass of wine. Paul wasn’t drinking along, he had a glass of cold water standing by. Art watched those hands, silky movements adjusting the tension on the strings, picking out the sounds with his right hand. Paul was a lefty like Art, to his delight. Unlike Art, Paul did manage to use his right hand more; Art never learned, he was a true lefty. Paul settled into his playing mode; back a little arched, a serious look on his face as he found the first chords and started to play a new song. It was calm like a water stream, deep like a still lake. It was worried and tired and expressed the state of the political environment they found themselves in. It was a typical window into what kept Paul’s mind busy, buzzing with worries. The tune was melodious and pulled at Art’s heart strings. He instantly loved the song and wanted to put love into it with his voice. He let Paul play it, finish it without him interrupting. A presentation of a new song was always very personal, especially when you’re Paul Simon. It was almost like a confession, or a declaration. In this song Art could feel it as clear and true as the paper on his table. It was one thing Art loved about Paul’s songwriting. Another was Paul’s honesty about and with the songs. Sometimes Art believed you could get to know him a great deal if only you listened. Of course, on a wider scale, Art believed that was the reason the songs were so good and could speak to a bigger audience. If only they got to hear them; the rest of the world was really missing out.

Paul was looking expectantly at Art. The long silence made him nervous, he needed to know if it was any good. A weight fell off of him when Art’s gaze met his, a smile broke through, and almost broken hearted he assured Paul: “That was beautiful.”

Paul’s shoulders slumped, the tension going from his shoulders and neck, a sigh escaping his mouth. 

“You think so?” he asked, still a little doubtful. “You’re not just saying that?”

Art shook his head: “No, I’m not really the kind to lie about it. I’m not very good at it.”

Now Paul finally dared to smile: “Good.” He put the guitar back in its case, not quite put away, but resting.

“I would love to sing harmonies to that,” Art enthusiastically chirped. “We could each take a verse to sing solo and the rest in harmony. I think that could work really nicely.”

Paul raised his eyebrows at Art: “You sound like you’re preparing a performance.”

“You can’t keep this from the world, it’s too good,” Art defended.

Art could see the lines on Paul’s face contorting back into a worried and doubtful grimace.

To ease Paul’s worries Art suggested: “We could try and record them and see if someone wants to listen to them. No need to play them live if you don’t want to.”

Paul picked up his pen again, his eyes gradually moving away from Art and back to his paper with scribbled lines. Art had started to recognize that motion; Paul was still not completely happy with the song. 

A lot of their evenings started to look like this. Both enjoyed this new routine; everything seemed to fall in place automatically. They didn’t need to ask, they never arranged to work together like this. One day at school, not long after Paul spent the night at Art’s, their eyes met and when the evening fell they walked to Art’s car and drove off together. Paul wanted to work on a new song, Art wanted to sing, both needed to do some schoolwork. When they arrived at Art’s place, Paul set up a small improvised working space on Art’s couch and breezed through his homework and immediately moved on to his songwriting. Art joined him in the small sitting area not long after peeling some loose papers out of Paul’s notebook and stealing a quick glance at the lines written there. Paul didn’t look at all that amused at first, till Art let him know he liked what he read and asked if it was in a song?

A few minutes later Paul was playing a beaten up guitar Art had with Art sitting opposite him humming a potential harmony. They naturally moved into working out the chords and harmonies and before they realized it, they were singing together.

***

For himself it was relatively easy, Art concluded, compared to Paul’s situation. He was already living separate from his wife and there were no children involved. Still, getting a divorce was another matter, it seemed so resolute and final. However, Art wasn’t sure Paul would agree he had a situation. Yes, he was fighting with his wife a lot. No, things weren’t getting easier and they seemed to grow apart further and further. Paul was still putting effort in trying to make things right. He took no steps to end it and kept Art at arm length. Art reasoned, it was only a matter of time. Nature had the funny habit of breaking what would not bend and Paul’s marriage was slowly approaching breaking point. Art wasn’t even sure Paul was aware of it, that his marriage couldn’t be salvaged.

Absentmindedly he grabbed the phone and dialled his wife’s home number; he didn’t think of it as his home anymore. He almost didn’t think of her as his wife anymore, just a good friend. Funny how things go. Art played with the telephone cord as he waited for the phone to be picked up. Paul was everywhere in his thoughts, during his schoolwork, during preparing and eating his meals, during relaxing in front of the TV, or listening music, or reading books. Somehow everything reminded him of Paul. No-one had ever made such an impression on Art and Art wasn’t even entirely sure why.

His wife’s voice was familiar and soothing. Art launched straight into his fascination with Paul, as he called it. His wife, an observant woman, quickly analysed Paul was more than just a fascination to Art. She again wondered if he was his new boyfriend and Art told her about his wife and how their relationship was not an open one. She understood the situation, warned Art to behave, to not mingle in the marriage but let Paul work this out for himself. After all, Paul wasn’t his boyfriend, Art said so himself. Art made some inarticulate noises, giving away his real feelings. His wife knew better than to press on; that just didn’t work with Art, he would just shut down. So she warned him one last time not to meddle.

Then there was the funny subject of their own relationship and marriage. What did they want out of it? In the last couple of months their marriage had been a long distance relationship with not much contact. Did they want to keep that up? With what goal? Was it even worth holding on to? Shouldn’t they both move on? To his own surprise, Art was reluctant to let go, only finding that out when his wife told him she wanted to move on. Was there someone else, was she in love with someone else? Art felt a sting of jealousy, he felt like the support his wife had been was suddenly pulled away from him. He felt a little lost and desserted. In the end, he had to admit there were no good reasons left to let their marriage live on.   
Joanna tried to read Paul’s thoughts, she tried to look through his eyes into his mind, but Paul was guarded, his eyes like dark curtains hiding his inner workings from the world. It wasn’t hard to tell thoughts were always going through his mind, though he often looked more troubled than he really was. Just that was what sometimes made it hard to handle Paul. He would get annoyed when you assumed something was wrong when there wasn’t, but he would also get annoyed when something was wrong and Paul wasn’t very good at letting things go. He had a talent for getting into arguments, and then didn’t know when to stop. It was a delicate line to walk and Joanna was growing tired of it. At the start of their relationship, Joanna had been the calming factor for Paul. She soothed his mind, calmed him down and helped him get things into perspective. It was a difficult task, especially since Paul wasn’t easy to convinceof anything once he made up his mind, his worries and anxieties shooting in extreme opposites. Joanna felt like everything was about Paul, everything revolved around what Paul wanted or thought. Revolved around Paul’s insercurity and Paul’s inability to put things at ease on his own. The marriage was suffocating her, but divorce was so final.

Avoiding fights they tiptoed around each other, got out of each other’s way and took turns looking after Olive. Paul thought of the vows he made to Joanna that gloomy afternoon, as if the weather predicted the outcome of their marriage. He had been sincere and he was sure Joanna had been too. The first years was exciting, because it was their first year as a married couple. The second year they found out Joanna was pregnant. In the third year Olive was born. With every passsing day, a bit of the romance got lost in the daily routine and life decisions started to point out Paul and Joanna were very different people with very different ideas about what family life should look like. But like most couples, they tried to make the best of it and stumbled from hurdle to hurdle occassionally falling flat on their faces.

Paul was a little easier to get along with the last couple of weeks. Joanna never met Paul’s colleague and new friend, but if he managed to calm Paul down, he was all right in Joanna’s book. Besides, at least Paul wasn’t having an affair. The only thing that bothered Joanna about it was how much time Paul spent at this guy’s place, almost more than at home with his family. Yes, when she found out this guy could join him in making music, Joanna had encouraged him to take up the guitar. She figured, if Paul could get back to his hobby, he might find an outlet for all of his frustrations and anger. She just tried to save her family, and her family had been suffering under Paul’s outburst and arguments. Now it seemed he was spending almost all of his spare time on music, in the company of this guy. Yes, there were less arguments, but mainly because Paul wasn’t there half of the time and the other half he simply wasn’t really talking to Joanna anymore. Joanna decided it was wise to get to know this new friend; possibly he could help work this out.

All through her musings she had been staring at Paul with Paul ignoring her while he played his guitar to his baby girl. He looked so peaceful, almost happy and content even. It warmed Joanna’s heart to see Paul so involved with their daughter. She almost felt guilty for disturbing him out of his song.

“Paul?” she started: “Why don’t you invite your friend over this weekend? I would like to meet him and maybe you can show me what you two have been working on.”

Paul’s attention snapped to his wife; he had nearly made himself forget she was there.

Paul stammered: “Oh uhm, uh, dunno, we’re not quite ready to show anything.”

“You can invite him for diner at least, can’t you?”

Paul’s eyes studied his wife, wondering why she came up with that suggestion. Paul had been away from home pretty much on purpose, ignoring the fact Joanna didn’t like it. Paul’s reasoning was, it was better than fighting all the time. He refused to think any further than that.

Reluctantly he agreed: “Sure, I can invite him for diner.”

It was a shallow victory to Joanna; she wasn’t even sure what she had won. God knows what Paul had been telling him, how he painted her to his new friend.

***

Paul was more disciplined, Art observed as he walked into the teacher’s room for coffee that morning. Paul was always in school about thirty minutes before classes started. He would start with getting himself some coffee, talk to a few colleagues and then retreat to his office to get his stuff ready for the first three classes. He was always on time and he was always prepared. Art excuted his working day by the principles of chaos, which meant he arrived at school whenever, sometimes in time for coffee other times even late for his first class. He was always prepared though; math was not just a job to Art, it was also a hobby and an outlet. Doing math cleared his mind and calmed him down, because it was dependable. Other than that, his schedule was a mess, so was his office and the desk in the classroom never stayed neat for long when Art was using it.

This morning Art was a little late, but allowed himself a cup of coffee and he walked straight into Paul heading out to his office.

“Hey,” Art greeted, his day immediately brighter.

Paul’s eyes cleared when he saw Art: “Hey, good morning.”

“Everything all right?” Art queried, always worried about Paul. He quickly added: “And good morning to you too.”

Paul laughed; he had gotten used to Art skipping the pleasantries.

“Hey, would you like to come for dinner this evening?” Paul was surprised he dropped the invitation this quickly, even looked surprised.

“At your home?” Art increduloudly asked.

Paul nodded: “Yeah, my wife cooks. It was her idea.”

“Oh, I see,” Art hesitated in accepting the invitation. 

This could be awkward. On the other hand, showing his more sane, conventional side to his wife could earn him more time with Paul. She didn’t have to know Art had a crush on her husband. She probably wouldn’t even figure it out, wouldn’t consider it. 

“Sure,” he eventually accepted.

Paul started to move towards his office again: “Talk to you later.”

“Uhuh,” Art confirmed as he admiringly watched Paul walk away. 

 

That day all the teachers had a collective meeting to discuss general subjects. This meeting the annual music night was on the agenda. Art had informed Paul about the night already, made it very clear he was going to partake and he would love it if Paul did too. Paul wasn’t sure about it yet. He could help organize the night, but he didn’t want to perform. Perform together? Paul wasn’t sure they were ready for it and Art agreed they needed to polish up their act, but Art also believed they could be ready by that time. Or they could use the night as a try-out. They were teachers in English and maths; nobody expected them to be musical talents. According to Art, it was a perfect oppertunity to test the act they had been working on for a few weeks.

Paul sighed as he approached the door of the teachers’ room where the meeting was held. He hadn’t seen Art since lunch, he was bound to be around. The room was already filling up with teachers when Paul entered. Paul briefly wondered how much he was alienating himself from the language teachers when he made his way to the science teachers in search of Art and an empty seat. Usually, Paul found both right next to each other and this case wasn’t an exception. Art grinned broadly at Paul when he saw him.

“Sit down, I saved you a seat.”

“I can see that,” Paul said as he sat down.

Art leaned in to Paul: “I’m going to enter us,” he studied Paul’s face, then added: “For a performance spot.”

Paul shot Art an annoyed look: “Yes, I get it. Just hold your horses; I’m not sure I’m ready. I was more thinking of helping with the organization.”

“Yeah, you could do that too.”

That was one trademark Paul didn’t like about Art, only hearing what he wanted to hear.

Paul kept quiet during the meeting; he only put his hand up when they were asked who wanted to help in the organization. Art put his hand up when asked for musical support to the students and performances. Art was way too enthusiastic in signing up to perform, in Paul’s opinion. At the end of the meeting it was noted that Paul was signed up for organization and performance, earning him an appreciative comment from the headmaster. Paul just smiled politely and shrunk into his collar.

After the meeting they walked out together, colleagues exchanging dubious glances as they noticed the pair together again. The buzz started with the students; they noticed too and were the younger brothers and sisters of the love generation. They reasoned, since both their English and maths teacher were of that generation too, they might be dabbling in some free love. The teachers caught on later, the older conventional ones after that. Paul couldn’t help notice people’s heads turning, whispering to each other and glaring at them as they passed. Art looked oblivious to it, but Paul suspected he just didn’t care all that much. Maybe he should create a little distance between them, go home after work like any normal family man. Thankfully, most teachers didn’t think much of it, certainly didn’t think something immoral was going on; they had just become very good friends. Art should watch his step though; he already had a reputation and could refrain more from gushing over how talented Paul was. It looked suspicious, especially coming from Art’s mouth.

Paul needed this job and was on his best behaviour, carefully dividing work from pleasure. Art didn’t make things easy for him; he often came to Paul’s office. He talked about their music ventures to the other teachers and Paul had been spotted climbing in Art’s car on a regular basis. If he pushed this too far, if people were getting the wrong ideas, he could find himself in dangerous waters. He needed this job.

Paul speeded through the corridors away from the teachers’ room and the curious eyes, Art in tow. 

“You’re in a hurry.”

Paul didn’t even look back at Art when he replied: “Yeah, I need to get some stuff from my office and then I need to go home.”

“Oh,” Art sounded disappointed in his usual way. Paul had gotten used to it, ignored it now.

Since it was late there were no students roaming the corridors and the two teachers soon arrived in Paul’s office without any fuss. It was only then that Paul stopped to look at Art.

“Are you ashamed of me,” Art asked.

“No,” Paul exclaimed: “People just get weird ideas about us.”

Art shrugged: “So?”

“Relationships at work, especially between teachers, are a no-go.”

“Paul, we don’t have such a relationship.”

“No, I know that, but they don’t.”

“And you think the head master will fire us based on the fact that we get along?”

Paul pulled an irritated face at Art: “The rumours are persistent…”

“But not true,”Art interrupted. 

Art could tell that did nothing to take away Paul’s irritation and he knew what he was about to say wouldn’t achieve that either.

He continued anyway: “Gawd, I wish they were true.”

Paul leaned on his desk, trying to stare some sense into Art. Art glared back for a little while. Paul was tough and steadfast in his opinions. Art already found that out and decided to let it go and averted his eyes.

Eventually he tried to calm things: “Calm down, okay. It’s not like we’re all over each other, no matter how badly I want it. The head master’s got nothing to fire us for, not even anything to reprimand us for. Schools are always filled with rumours and gossips. Let them; they’re going to anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to feed those ‘rumours and gossips’.”

“We’re not feeding anything. We get along and happened to have found each other in music. That’s a work relationship if anything. Besides, we now have a good reason to spend a lot of time together working on our music.”

Paul had to admit, their performance for the music night was a good excuse.

***

It turned out, the school’s music night was a perfect excuse to spend time together working on their music. Paul suspected for Art it was also a cover for more personal intentions, though so far he hadn’t acted on them. Paul had to admit, on a personal level, he enjoyed hanging around in Art’s apartment. It made him feel sheltered and protected. It gave him a place to quietly and freely work on his music, with a partner who believed in him and supported and encouraged him. He wasn’t sure he wanted anything more from it, he wasn’t sure the funny fuzzy feeling was amounting to more than just friendship. He was also still married; he cared for his wife and he loved his baby daughter.

Paul had been staring at Art for a while, he didn’t even realize he was. Art was working on a song Paul wrote earlier, writing the harmonies. There was no evidence Art noticed Paul staring and yet, Paul was sure Art knew, probably even before Paul realized it. His features were fine and delicate; clear pale skin over chiseled cheekbones. His clear blue eyes only just let on about the man behind those eyes. Never before had anyone been so patient and motivating to Paul. He started to believe in his own writing. He was even toying with the idea of bringing it to the stage, together with Artie, like he dreamt for so long. The school’s music night could be the perfect place to test where they stood and how audiences might receive them, just like Art argued.

Now that the songs were there and they had a setlist worth, they needed to practice; they needed to fine tune their voices to each other and bring their pronunciations together. Art was meticulous in that, dragging Paul through hours and hours of repetition. Art didn’t feel guilty and Paul indulged him because Paul had made Art wait and rewrite harmonies because Paul was just as meticulous with his songwriting. It took them quite a while to hit the sweet spot where both were on exactly the same wavelength and the same pronunciation. It took even longer to perfectly fit their voices together to a point where Art’s pure clear voice complemented Paul’s deeper gentle voice. They were adapting and bending till their shared voices hit a tremor that simply soared. The first time they managed it they both shut down in surprise and shock. So that was what they had been missing out on. Lord, that sounded good, and it felt good too, it felt right. They stared at each other, eyes wide in shock. As reality sunk in they burst out laughing.

Something clicked and Art wasn’t thinking. He lunged forward, grabbed Paul and put his lips against Paul’s. The taste and touch of Paul’s lips weren’t long on Art’s; Paul jumped back in alarm leaving Art embarrassed. The blood that colored his cheeks were now completely draining making Art look pale and somewhat sick.


	6. Summer Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Paul's family and the music night. Sorry it took so long.

“What are you doing!?”

Never before did Paul’s voice sound this shrill and the level of panic in his body language surpassed any nervous disposition Art had ever seen in Paul.

That was a stupid thing to do and exactly the opposite of what his wife had told him to do. Art could slap himself, but the situation requested his immediate attention if he didn’t want to lose Paul completely.

Art opened his mouth to apologize, but it seemed rather hollow and meaningless to just apologize, so he shut his mouth again. Paul was glaring at him; it made Art even more uncomfortable. What should he say? How could he salvage this situation?Was it really such a bad thing? Art thought Paul wanted it too…at least at a deeper level.

Paul cast his eyes down and sighed.

“Look, Art. You’re a great guy. Of all the guys I know, you would be the one…I mean…uh…What I mean is…I..I don’t, I don’t fall for guys. Besides, I’m married.”

Paul looked defeated, he stared at his hands resting in his lap. Art hadn’t taken his eyes off of Paul. He needed to know why.

“Is it because you’re married?” he hopefully asked.

Paul hesitated, then slightly shook his head and hesitated again. He wasn’t actually sure. He had to admit, his marriage was a perfect excuse not to act on anything, to push Art away. Did he want to push Art away? Did he want more than friendship from Art? Paul wasn’t sure about any of these questions, but he did know he couldn’t let his marriage fail. It had to work, because divorce was a sin and Olive needed her daddy around. No, it was clear; Paul did not want anything more than friendship from Art.

“That was uncalled for,” Paul finally said.

“You can’t just go kissing people out of the blue, especially not people of your own sex.”

That familiar disappointed look appeared on Art’s face. He knew it was risky what he had just done, but it also might open up possibilities. Now Paul hadn’t allowed it and Art was even further removed from his secret fantasies.

Paul quickly started to take the cover off of his guitar indicating he wanted to get back to the music. Art’s face was still pale and his features had gone blank while his eyes had lost their sparkle. He remained still while Paul was getting ready to start a session of practising. Paul never looked up at Art till there was no longer denying Art wasn’t following suit. Their eyes finally met.

Paul hoped they wouldn’t start the subject again; there wasn’t anything more he wanted to say. Maybe if he waited long enough, Art would snap out of it and get on with their music session. When that didn’t happen, Paul let a sigh escape. If he really needed to spell it out…

“Look, Art. I’m married with a child. I have to do everything in my power to make this work. We can be friends, but nothing more.”

Art nodded and smiled weakly: “I understand,” he said, his voice as weak as his smile.

Paul still had his guitar in his lap and he was looking at Art expectantly. Art was avoiding eye contact, working hard on processing the situation and how to deal with it. He wasn’t very good at situations that went against his personal longings. He was even worse at expressing his longings and fitting them to new situations. He was very aware of Paul’s unwavering stare, but he had great difficulty dealing with Paul’s decision to ignore it and move on as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

In the end Art’s desire to keep Paul near made him take a few deep breaths, calm himself and show a brave smile.

“Yeah, let’s practice for the music night!” Art bravely suggested. “Let’s work on that new song.”

Paul, who was glad this awkward situation had finally come to an end, gratefully prepared himself for some music making.

***

Joanna was standing in the hallway, arms crossed tight against her chest, her face wearing a grim expression. Paul felt very small when he stepped into the hallway and saw her like that. He knew he was late; he should have called. Still, hadn’t she gotten used to this pattern yet?

Joanna opened the conversation: “Alone?”

Paul frowned confused: “Yes. Why?”

“I thought your friend would join us for dinner tonight and you’re late!”

Paul suddenly remembered he was supposed to ask Art, which he did. He also remembered he would call if Art said ‘No’. Art said ‘Yes’, so Paul didn’t call. Then he forgot all about it, as had Art. Paul wasn’t sure what Art’s excuse was, though he could venture a guess. Paul had forgotten, because he found the music night and Art’s intentions troublesome. It took his mind off the just as troublesome dinner. Maybe he had forgotten on purpose, but he didn’t dare to explore that avenue.

“Well,” Joanna impatiently inquired.

Paul took his time taking off his coat and hanging it on a coat hanger. All he was doing was buying himself some time while his mind feverishly searched for an excuse. He couldn't come up with a better one than the truth within the few seconds he had to think.

“I forgot,” Paul answered apologetically grimacing.

Only then the better answer popped in his head; he should have said Art couldn’t make it this evening. 

Joanna proceeded: “And why are you late?”

Ouch, another good question.

Paul stumbled over the tangle of bag straps and loose laces in unison with his stumble of words: “Oh uh…well..you see…”

Joanna was tapping her foot in the carpet.

“Well,” Paul tried again. “Yeah, you see, uhm…I went to Artie’s.”

“And you couldn’t call me?”

Paul pulled another pained face. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Joanna wasn’t happy with his replies nor the situation: “I cooked a dinner for three. Not only didn’t you bring your friend, but you failed to turn up to eat that dinner yourself.”

Paul couldn’t say more than ‘sorry’.

“What am I supposed to do with the rest of the food?”

Paul tried to make his way to the stairs to escape this tirade, but Joanna was purposely blocking the way. When it was clear Joanna expected an answer Paul said: “Warm it up? I’ll have a plate tomorrow and if you join me, we can finish it.”

Joanna gritted her teeth: “I’m so sick of you not thinking of me at all. I’m doing the housework, all the cleaning, all the shopping and all the cooking, and you just take it for granted!”

The breath stuck in Paul’s throat. He was tired and just wanted to go see his daughter and then go to bed. Joanna yelling at him and accusing him of things he doesn’t do or does do was the last thing Paul needed right now. The reason he didn’t want to sleep on the couch and remembering what he had told Art earlier that evening, made him try to calm things down.

“Darling, I’m really sorry. You’re right, I should have called and I don’t take all your work for granted at all. I’ll make it up to you, but can we go to bed now? It’s late and I have to work tomorrow.”

It was late, and Joanna was tired too, so she let it go for now, but not ending without a warning: “We’ll talk about this later.”

She stayed in place for a little longer looking Paul up and down seeing him shrinking uncomfortably into his collar. Then she turned and walked up the stairs without saying another word to her husband.

***

Art took a quick drag of his cigarette before hiding his fag out of sight of the students. 

Paul pulled a face at his action and commented: “It’s not as if you’re smoking a J.”

Art shrugged: “Nah…” and took another drag. “It’s just…I don’t know….none of their business?”

Paul frowned, his eyes still on Art while he ate his sandwich . He should remind Art of his invitation, the one that Art avoided artfully.

“Hey, you still want to come for dinner?”

Art blew out some smoke as he turned to face Paul. Paul could tell Art found it awkward; he didn’t get an answer immediately. Art stared at what was left of his cigarette, trying to avoid answering, but knowing he couldn’t put it off forever.

“Art?” Paul prodded.

Art’s eyes wandered from the cigarette butt to Paul and back to the cigarette. He dropped it and put it out with his left foot staring at it intently as if he was making sure it was really out. Paul rolled his eyes at the whole scene. Art could be so awkward and weird when it came to social situations, especially when it involved his own emotions.

“Yeah!”Art suddenly perked up too loud to his own dismay.

Paul, getting used to Art’s sudden outbreaks and general weirdness, just looked at him, seeing if more was forthcoming. It was not.

Art shrugged and grinned: “Could be interesting. When?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I should discuss that with Joanna.”

“Oh, okay,” Art murmured fingering a new cigarette out of the packet.

“Don’t divert this time,” Paul warned.

Art gave Paul a quizzical look: “What do you mean?”

“Last time we somehow ended up at your place; Joanna was not amused.”

***

Paul tried to remember whose idea it was to invite Art for dinner, must have been Joanna. She probably wanted to check out who Paul was hanging out with so much. Understandable. Paul also tried to remember when the idea was hatched, was it before or after that kiss? Must have been before, Paul would probably have tried harder to avoid a dinner appointment; this had gotten so confusing. Paul fumbled with his shirt, the buttons seemed all out of line and his fingers impossibly thick, he wasn’t even going to try a tie. The thoughts in his head were bouncing around faster than before and they were more confusing. Art kissed him, it was outrageous. Paul didn’t ask for it, he didn’t give any signs, he never even wanted it. Right? Why did that kiss keep lingering in his mind? Why could he still feel Art’s lips on his own and did he remember what Art tasted like? It was outrageous. It made Paul nervous, but at the same time, he couldn’t wait to see Art again.

Joanna appeared in the doorway striking a pose showing off her dress. Paul turned, but wasn’t enthusiastic enough to Joanna’s liking.

“You don’t like it,” she concluded. “What is it you don’t like?” 

Paul quickly shook his head hoping to avert another drama: “No no, you look beautiful. I just expected you to wear the blue dress.”

“You like the blue dress better?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to attract him. I didn’t set you up for a date. I’ll be there as well…Not to suggest a trio.”

Joanna’s face was an image of surprise and fascination. What just happened there? And why did Paul turn away from her? Was he hiding something?

“A trio,” she inquired.

Paul sighed: “I didn’t want you to think I was suggesting something improper. The dress is nice…I like the way you did your hair too.”

Joanna smiled contented and left the room.

Paul let a breath escape he didn’t realize he was holding. He hoped his clever redirection helped and Joanna was none the wiser, as long she wouldn’t find out Art kissed him. He might have been blushing; his cheeks felt hot. Even if Joanna had certain ideas in her head now, Paul wouldn’t know how to explain his behaviour. He wasn’t even sure what that behaviour was, secretive, bored with his marriage? He wasn’t even sure about what to think about that kiss. He kept telling himself it was outrageous and a total no-go. On the other hand, it stirred something in Paul, or was it just curiosity?

For some reason he was trying to put a tie on, his fingers getting tangled and the tie getting wrinkled. When he realized what his hands were trying to do he ripped the tie loose and threw it on the bed. This damn situation should be settled soon.

***

Art looked even more awkward than the situation really was. His attire looked like he had no idea how to dress for this dinner evening; formal or casual? In the end he went for a casual sort of formal wear. It made him look like a business man on the run. Paul couldn’t suppress an amused grin when Art clumsily greeted him, bottle of wine in his left hand, flowers in his right.

“Are those for me?” Paul joked reaching out for the flowers.

Art’s cheeks immediately turned red. It was as if his arms were all tight up together, or as if coordination over his arms had ceased to function. Ungracefully and without a word Art lifted up the bottle of wine.

“Ah, wine! Joanna will be very happy with that,” Paul went on jesting. “She’s probably gonna need it.”

Art stumbled in passing Paul in the narrow hallway. Paul closed the front door and gestured him into the living room where his wife stood ready to greet Art. She showed a big beautiful smile and extended her right hand; the perfect hostess. There was no way Art was going to be elegant about this. Ungraceful he offered the flowers to her, then turned on his heels nearly twirling into Paul, the bottle of wine dangerously swinging past Paul’s head. Paul quickly grabbed the bottle and Art’s coat already slipping off of Art’s shoulders.

Art rolled his eyes at Paul about his own stumbling and turned back to Paul’s wife with an embarrassed grin on his face offering the flowers once more.

Joanna sounded genuinely surprised and delighted when she accepted the flowers: “Oh, for me?” 

Art did half a bow in an attempt to be graceful.

“I’ll better put them in a vase,” Joanna said sniffing the flowers. 

“Why don’t you pour everyone some wine, Paul?” she suggested before walking away to find a vase.

Art let a breath escape as soon Joanna disappeared out of sight. Paul had already started his task of pouring the wine when Art turned to him.

“That was all right, wasn’t it?” Art asked mainly to calm his own nerves.

Paul nodded while he handed the first glass to Art: “Sure. Could have been much worse. For a moment I thought you were going to juggle with the bottle and the flowers.”

Art took the wine, a timid smile on his face: “Yeah, I was a bit clumsy.” 

He took a big gulp of wine causing Paul’s face to pull into a worried grimace.

“Try not to get drunk, Art. I need you sober and as normal as you can be.”

Art lowered the glass giving Paul a quizzical look: “What do you mean?”

Paul shrugged: “Well, you can be…you know…”

Art shook his head, as if he had no idea what Paul was talking about. The rest of the conversation was cut short, because Joanna returned with the bouquet in a vase.

Paul mouthed a last sentence at Art, trying to warn him to behave. Art replying in the same manner with confusion across his features. His face falling back into a pleasant smile hiding the secret communication with her husband just as Joanna turned to him.

Art wasn’t sure Joanna didn’t catch on, she seemed oblivious still playing the perfect hostess.

“Thank you for the flowers. Did Paul get you some wine?”

Art responded by raising the glass.

“Good,” she said and she gestured at a chair around a dinner table: “Why don’t you sit down?”

Joanna intended to find out exactly who Art was. How his friendship with her husband was and how he could be an influence on Paul. Joanna still believed, some positive energy from outside their relationship could help their marriage. Besides that she was looking for some support, maybe someone from outside could make Paul see and understand her side of the story. She wasn’t sure Art was going to do that for her, but she was sure he had Paul’s ear. It was worth a try.

So far her impression of Art was a little scattered, compiled of what Paul told of him and the first stumbling introduction. So far he came across as odd, strange and removed from conventional social rules. Joanna filed it away as nerves; after all, it was the first time he came for dinner, they’d never met.

Before she sat down she offered around some chocolates. He smiled pleasantly at her, politely taking a chocolate. He seemed to settle down. Now Paul looked more nervous than Art and Joanna wondered why that was. Did he think Art was going to tell her something he didn’t want her to know? Or maybe the other way around? She exchanged a few glances with him, or tried to; Paul kept looking away.

“Don’t you have a baby daughter? Uh, Olive was it?” Art was addressing Joanna, clearly trying to strike up a conversation with her.

“Yes,” she smiled returning the politeness. “She’s upstairs with my sister. My sister looks after her tonight.”

“Oh why?” Art sounded disappointed.

This time Paul replied: “We didn’t want any interruptions tonight. Have a nice quiet dinner and be able to have conversations.”

“I don’t mind having a baby interrupt sometimes. I love children. And I was rather curious to see if she was spared Paul’s bad habits,” Art joked.

Both Paul and Joanna laughed, but Art wasn’t sure if either one of them found that a funny joke. They didn’t look at all that amused to Art. Paul was very obviously nervous and Joanna was busy playing the perfect hostess. It was hard to get a good impression of the household. It was probably a good idea to get Joanna’s acceptance. It would make it easier for Paul and Art to see each other on a regular basis. Also, Art wasn’t looking for a fight.

“Dinner is nearly ready and I have some time before I have to finish the first course . So, tell us something about yourself, Art.”

Art wasn’t prepared to present himself, he expected casual talk, not a presentation. He tried to catch Paul’s eyes, but Paul was looking at his wife with a horrified look in his eyes. Art figured it was because Paul knew things about him he worried his wife wouldn’t understand nor approve of. Paul’s lack of confidence in Art’s judgement and social savviness was a little hurting. Art knew how to behave himself. Sure, it took him a little more effort, but he could do it, he could even be very charming if he wanted to be.

“Wow, let me see,” he started. He’d better be careful now. 

“As you probably know I’m a teacher at the same school as Paul, I teach math. I’ve been there for nearly three years and before this school I had a position as a substitute teacher. It was very irregular. I got that job through University. I studied math.”

Joanna nodded: “Yes, that’s interesting. What about your private life? What are your hobbies, for instance? What do you do to unwind? Are you married, in a relationship…?”

Paul’s eyes widened at the questions, his lips pursed and his eyes fixed on Art communicating he should be careful now. Art knew how to answer; this wasn’t the first time he was asked.

“I’m married, my wife lives in Michigan. Our jobs keep us apart at the moment.”

Joanna frowned: “Really? Why didn’t she move with you?”

“She didn’t want to give up her job and I didn’t want to let this opportunity slip. So, here we are.”

“How does that work?”

“I go home nearly every weekend,” Art lied.

Joanna looked confused; she couldn’t grasp how a marriage could work like that.

“Paul’s been a great friend helping me deal with this situation.”

“Oh good,” Joanna muttered at a loss for words.

Art wondered if he could casually start talking about his hobbies, but Joanna broke the silence abruptly for him.

“I need to check on the food,” she announced before sprinting into the kitchen.

Art saw Paul slump in relief when Joanna left the room.

“Went all right, don’t you think?” Art chirped.

 

To keep the evening pleasant and light the rest of the conversations were kept from heavy subjects like relationships and marriage. Truthfully they talked about their collaboration in music and Art gleefully announced Paul and he were going to perform during the music night and that Joanna should come. Paul was once again horrified, but couldn’t think of an excuse to stop her from coming. He tried, he used Olive as an excuse, but Joanna told him her sister could babysit again; she loved her niece and was telling Joanna to go out more anyway.

To Paul’s surprise and relief Joanna liked Art, even invited him to join them for dinner on a regular basis since his wife couldn’t cook his dinner. She was also of the opinion Art’s wife should have followed him to New York; that was her duty as a wife. Good thing she wasn’t aware of Art’s ideas of personal relationships and marriages and the deal he struck with his wife. To Paul’s relief Art made no attempt to correct her ideas nor to show any of his opinions on the matter, instead he gratefully accepted her offer. On one hand Paul was glad, on the other, he was very nervous about this situation.

When Art had left his wife turned to him: “He was nice enough, a bit weird but nice. You could have joined in a bit more.”

“I was just relieved you two got along.”

“Strange situation with his wife though. I suppose he’s too good a person to put her straight,” Joanna mused.

Paul had to be careful not to huff, instead he replied: “Yeah, that must be it.”

***

Paul lately had difficulty concentrating on his work. Ironically, the same reasons that once gave him an extra spring in his step were now distracting him. Art sat next to him, legs crossed, a notepad casually balancing on his knee, the pen tapping on the paper. Paul couldn’t help letting his eyes wander to his friend from time to time. Paul was supposed to help organize the whole flow of the evening, set up timetables and coordinate the use of classrooms and stages. It wasn’t very complicated and his colleagues had done it before. As a matter of fact, they used the plans from previous years, so they didn’t require much input from Paul. It suited Paul just fine since he couldn’t seem to get his business organized these days.

Then there was the case of the teachers’ performances. When they were asked Paul let Art answer gladly. There was a vague expression of confusion; just a guitar and two voices? They were sure they didn’t need any help from other teachers or students? Someone could play bass, electric guitars even drums. Make it a proper band. Art was adamant; it was just going to be them, a guitar and two voices. Paul only confirmed when the teachers looked at him after Art laid out their plan for the performance. In the end it was agreed, Paul and Art were free to do what they wanted to do. Once Art remarked they were already working on their act and that they already worked out all the songs, the arrangements and even all the harmonies, they moved on to the next subject on the agenda. Art sat back, a content look on his face. Paul stared at him wondering how far he set himself from the other teachers now it was clear he had chosen Art’s way to go. There was something adventurous about it, something stubborn and fresh and Paul knew there really wasn’t any other way. There was no way Paul would remain within the traditional borders. The traditional ideas and way of going about it didn’t suit him, it wasn’t challenging enough. Also, life with Art was so much more exciting.

There was another thing. Something in Paul had stirred, his musical side. Paul came to realize it was part of who he was, music made up a part of his identity , it was a part of his natural home, his safe haven and his best most loyal friend. Since his teens he sort of knew that, or rather, he knew music was important to him. He had no idea in what shape or form, or how he should incorporate it in his life. For a while he even believed he shouldn’t allow it to become a great part in his life, just a side thing. Now, singing with Art, he wasn’t so sure he could even do that, keep it small, just a hobby. Whenever he was working on an idea, on a new song, he felt alive, he felt like he finally belonged. He was at his best with his hands on the strings of a guitar, he felt at ease when he was playing. Then there was this new sensation.

Lips singing words, he could almost feel the vibrations of two soaring voices in the air, even now, sitting in this meeting, listening to all this talk. Paul could almost hear the words melting into melodies, no matter the stark subject matter and serious faces. He knew he could match his voice to it, he wanted to. He wanted to feel that tremble in his voice, as if his voice became a body part. He wanted it to inhabit his ears, thrilling in the air. He wanted to hear that particular voice so he could wrap his voice around it. A sensation he had never known before. Those lips he never knew before. Soft, wet and warm and around his own.

With a shock Paul was pulled out of his daydreaming. He wasn’t sure if it was the realization of what he had done, kissing those lips back, or if it was Art’s elbow gently nudging him in the ribs. Was he asked something? Was he supposed to say something? Art subtly moved a paper a little closer to Paul. Something scribbled in the corner: “In charge of sportsfield stage? Say yes.”

Paul looked up to see the whole team staring at him: “Uhm yeah. Yeah sure,” he agreed as instructed.

Art promptly rearranged his papers flashing him a grin.

 

When Paul walked out of the teachers’ room Paul realized he didn’t actually know what Art made him agree to. He packed his bag taking his time since he was waiting for Art. Art was talking to some of their other colleagues and saying his goodbyes. Paul already had his coat on, bag on shoulder, when Art finally joined him.

“What’s the sportsfield thing?” Paul asked in a hushed voice.

“We’ll be playing on that stage. Means we don’t have to be inside rushing around all the classrooms. We keep things going outside and we’ll have enough time to do our own preparations.”

That sounded good to Paul: “Oh, smart thinking,” he complimented Art.

Art laughed: “Thank you very much. You might want to listen during meetings. Sometimes it’s very useful.” 

Paul blushed, if only Art knew what he had been thinking about.

 

The weeks slipped away as the preparations progressed. They had a program and instructions. Paul was glad to have been teamed up with Art. Not only did he get along best with Art, Art knew what to do; he’d done it before in previous years. The only thing they were still preparing and working on was their performance. The setlist was decided and the arrangements and harmonies were worked out. They already got quite good, but they were both aiming for perfection. Now they spent nearly every evening practicing , sometimes at Art’s house, but mainly at Paul’s, because Joanna would cook. Art was there so often now, the guestroom was slowly turning into Art’s own bedroom. Paul was content with this arrangement. He told himself it was because this way they both got a proper meal in and there was more control over when to pause and when to stop; no midnight sessions. If he had to be completely honest with himself, it also kept Art at a distance. Paul couldn’t deal with another kissing incident. It was all too confusing and on top of all the rest that was going on, work, music, family and that music night, it was simply too much.

Paul could tell Art was frustrated by it. He wanted more, wanted at least to talk about it, but Paul kept changing the subject and avoiding having to talk about it. Art didn’t let on when Joanna was around. He was respectful and charming, keeping the secret well, but to Art it felt like he was also keeping the secret from Paul. One of these nights something would break. Art wasn’t sure what would happen, but he did know he couldn’t keep pretending nothing ever happened. The few evenings he had to himself Art went into town searching for what he didn’t get from Paul. He always came back disillusioned . He knew what he wanted, or rather who he wanted. So the next day he would find himself at Paul’s and Joanna’s again, believing for a few nights that just being around him was enough. It wasn’t really and the need was growing in intensity. One of these nights….

***

It was a nice summer evening. The schoolyard was decorated in the school’s colors and there was a stage at the back. Trees lined the sides of the schoolyard casting cool shadows on the grey concrete. In the back of the schoolyards there were a few stands for food and drinks, all provided by teachers and students. Away on the sportsfield were two smaller stages and some classrooms were redecorated to facilitate small performances. Several students were going to perform in cycles of 30 minutes in which guests were given time to move from classroom to classroom to sportsfield and schoolyard. The evening would end with a performance by all the participating students in either the choir or the orchestra. Paul and Art were programmed to play after the official part had come to an end and all the guests were networking. Art was a bit miffed about it, because he wanted the guests’ undivided attention. Paul was secretly a little relieved, hoping people wouldn’t notice if they made a mess of their performance. Of course he didn’t tell Art he felt that way.

One would think the presence of your spouse should be a calming factor. Paul didn’t feel that way; Joanna’s presence made him even more nervous than he already was. He wasn’t even sure why it made him more nervous. Was he afraid she was going to find something out about him and Art? If so, what? What was there to find out? Paul was loyal and faithful to her? Why did he even have these idiotic thoughts?

Paul tried to keep his hands busy tuning his guitar, writing down the setlist, rewriting the setlist, tuning his guitar again. Art wandered around him, supplying drinks and snacks, but mainly keeping quiet and out of Paul’s way. Paul was irritable, snapping at almost everything Art did. Art understood; it had been a long time since Paul been on the stage and the last time he was had not been a success. Paul had been nervous for weeks, even suggesting a few times to cancel their appearance. It took every ounce of Art’s determination and confidence to get Paul to commit to this performance, to just do it.  
Joanna was somewhere on the terrain talking to people and looking around. Her sister was babysitting, so she didn’t have to look after the baby while there. She said it was her first proper night out since she gave birth. She dressed up and everything, she looked quite pretty, Art noticed. An elegant dark beauty with big brown eyes, her dark brown hair blowing in a summer breeze. Paul sure had taste. Since he was the one who invited her, Art felt obligated to greet her and have a little talk.

She was looking at some artworks from students put on display when Art approached her.

“Hi,” he greeted charmingly.

Joanna turned, her full red lips pulling into a smile when she recognized him.

“Hello, how are you doing? Paul’s not too difficult, is he?”

“Difficult? Paul?”

Joanna laughed politely at Art’s joke and said: “He was a ball of nerves this morning. He can be quite testy when he’s not comfortable in a situation.”

“That’s all right,” Art ensured: “It’s quite natural to be nervous when you’re about to perform for people. I’m nervous too.”

“You seem to be handling it much better than Paul.” 

Art shrugged: “Oh, I don’t know. I’m also looking forward to it. I love singing to audiences. And Paul’s songs are really good.”

Joanna was surprised: “Really!?”

Which surprised Art: “He never played you any of his songs?”

Joanna shook her head. Maybe he played some for Olive, but Joanna wasn’t sure those counted as his repertoire. Paul never played any of his songs to her. She had no idea why not, so she had no idea how good he was. She believed Art; so far he had always been honest to her.

While they were talking people had started to disappear to classrooms and sport fields. The evening of music was about to start, so Art excused himself to go help out on his post. A quick look behind the stage told him Paul had already left for his duties. Maybe all the activities would calm Paul down, or at least get his mind on other things. Art hurried to the entrance of the schoolyard; he was fashionably late deserving an irritated look from Paul who was leading people to seats in front of the schoolyard stage. He was supposed to be backstage helping students getting ready. As soon he was free he rushed over to Art and dragged him to the next guests.

“You’re late,” he hissed at Art.

Art apologetically shrugged then put on his most charming smile and took over guiding the guests to their seats while Paul hurried backstage to the nervous students.

The evening moved swiftly on. Paul was glad he was not the music teacher; he’d be embarrassed. Most of the acts were understudied and sloppy. The guests, mainly parents and friends of the students, didn’t seem to mind and applauded them wildly. Paul would sneak a peek while the students were playing, shrieking notes decorating the summer air. He wondered how people did not walk away with their hearing damaged. A few times he saw Art standing in the back, arms crossed, an amused grin on his face. He looked like the older brother of some unfortunate student, or weird uncle. He looked completely out of place in his casually undone colorful shirt, not like a teacher at all, more like an art student. Paul was supposed to stand next to that man later that evening. With a sigh Paul retreated backstage; that was a worry for later. Strangely, he hadn’t seen his wife yet. Was she inside going to all the classroom performances? Probably. Or was she hiding between the trees and bushes? Whatever the case, Paul had no time to talk to her anyway.

Almost without notice the moment of their performance arrived. Paul suddenly found him standing on the stage, guitar hanging in front of his stomach, Art stood next to him, a little bent forward to whisper soothing words in his ear and to lessen their height difference. Paul’s eyes went over the crowd, most of them were talking to each other. A quiet rumble of voices, smacking mouths and chairs being pushed around on the concrete. He suddenly saw Joanna, she was sitting near the centre of the schoolyard, right in the middle of the stage only a few rows away.

Paul looked very nervous, didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Art stood bent over him clearly whispering to him. Only now Joanna noticed how odd they looked together, Paul small and dark, Art blond and towering over him. They looked like a comic duo. Art whispered something again and Paul briefly turned to him, his big brown eyes nervous. Then he sighed positioned his hands and started playing the first hesitating chords. Most of the people didn’t even notice the music started again; they kept talking to their company, laughing at bad jokes. Slowly the music took over, first Paul’s guitar, then his voice trembling. Art’s voice joined Paul’s in harmony. At first it didn’t sound right and it was clear Paul was drifting a little. For a brief moment it looked like their performance was going to go by unnoticed till something happened. Paul’s voice found the right harmony line and fell in place right under Art’s voice and suddenly the music soared through the air. Conversations were stopped and people lifted their faces up to the stage. It was as if the gravitational pull had centred on the stage with Paul and Art right in the middle of it. The attention of the audience was grounded to the stage. All the light seemed to be sucked in as well, all the sounds becoming part of the music. They were glowing in the centre (writing and singing Cecilia at the same time is not easy), their vocals were sparkling, their voices turning the music into magic. Joanna watched her husband merge with the music and disappearing into it altogether. Art next to him blended straight in as well. They filled the air with magic, like something out of a film, or maybe even out of a fairy tale. That was just one song and when it was finished it was quiet, an audience astonished. Eventually, an enthusiastic applause broke out. Paul visibly relaxed when he realized people liked what they were doing. He allowed himself to completely settle into the music, let it take him and with that the audience.

People were moving from the food stalls, the sports field and from the classrooms to the sparse seating space in front of the schoolyard stage. Students informed their parents in hushed voices those were their math and English teachers. Some of the female students promptly developed crushes on their teachers. Teachers were taking notice as well, gathering together in the back asking each other if the other had any idea and making comments like: “So that was what they’ve been doing all these months”. This performance would become the high point of the evening and talked about for a long time. It also fuelled the gossips about their sexuality and their relationship. They were something so weird, so out of place and so untraditional. They didn’t fit the teachers’ traditional rules of society, nor the students new rules for society and then there were the people who had no clue what was going on or how things should be. No matter their ideas, everybody had their own opinions, and it started that evening.

Paul and Art finished their set in absolute silence during the songs and increasingly louder applause in between the songs. In the end they ended up playing an encore, two songs they had done already and another they deemed not ready during their rehearsals. At the end of their performance they were on such a high that neither was really bothered about the unready state of the unrehearsed song. They exchanged excited glances and smiles and in their state failed to realize the effect their hugs and touches had on their audience. Neither even realized what they did, it had grown over the past few months, the intimacy and signs of affection they felt for each other, the way they it came out as a means of communication to one another. Neither thought much of it, but the audience noticed it too. Some memorized the events, the way the two teachers behaved on stage, others were swept away by the music, Paul and Art only knew their performance had gone well and their act was working. They even didn’t recognize the confusion in Joanna when they met her backstage, the first person to talk to them after they came off stage.

Joanna gave Art a weird look, Art smiled excitedly at her, music and applause still washing through his head. Then she turned to Paul who uncharacteristically flung his arms around her neck.

“Did you see us up there?” he enthusiastically exclaimed as he pulled her into a tight hug.

The hug immediately erased all confusion and questions out of her mind and after a split second of hesitation she wrapped her arms around her husband. She had him back, finally.

”I’m so happy for you,” she honestly told him: “You were great.”

Art watching the hug was roughly pulled out of his reverie feeling as if Paul was suddenly pulled away from his side. He was once again very aware of what he wanted and couldn’t have. He didn’t have long to feel sorry for himself as teachers and some students came backstage to congratulate them and rub shoulders with the new heroes. The headmaster didn’t hesitate, he grabbed Art’s hand and wildly shook it while his other hand slapped him on the shoulder. Paul, one arm still around Joanna, was also shaking hands with several teachers, some girls were hanging around trying to get a touch sometimes even a quick grab. Joanna was getting nervous by all the attention and the insistent grabbing, attaching herself even tighter against her husband. Paul was very clearly enjoying all the attention and admiration and was completely oblivious of Joanna’s nervousness and Art’s pleading eyes to get out of this circus. Art wanted a private moment, he wanted a moment in which he could celebrate with Paul, their hard work paid off and that he was right they had something special on their hands. He saw Paul change before his eyes, from the insecure English teacher with a hobby to an ambitious and passionate musician. Art knew Paul was now in the right place to make this really interesting and he needed Paul to know this too. Art was not going to let anything get in their way.

Art grabbed the chance when a bottle of cheap wine, no champaign, was thrusted into his hands. He turned to Paul, grabbed his arms and excused both Paul and himself for a moment then dragged Paul off into the sports hall where they kept their bags. Paul still had his guitar hanging in front of his stomach, his eyes wide and sparkling. Paul loosened the guitar strap and put the instrument delicately on the floor against the wall. They stared at each other for a moment catching their breath and drinking in their success. A big mischievous grin on Paul’s face. Art couldn’t control his urge any longer. He lunged forward grabbed Paul and pushed him into one of the toilet booths. Paul, not only stunned but quite heated himself, didn’t get much time to defend his honor, nor was he sure he really wanted to. His attempts to push Art off and get some distance between them were weak. Within seconds he was pushed with his face against the side of the booth his pants around his ankles. The leftover thoughts still whirling in his mind were roughly pushed aside when Paul felt Art enter him and fill him up. Paul gasped in ecstasy as the dirty white side of the booth changed into bright colors exploding in front of his eyes. Another overwhelming experience on top of the existing euphoria, Paul was riding high on adrenaline and testosterone. Never before had he felt so complete, did he know who he was and what he wanted. He wanted the music to be his occupation. He wanted the glory fill his life and he wanted to feel the loving so deep inside. He wanted, no he needed release. He needed release from this restricting life. He needed…release…

With a whimper Paul emptied himself in a dirty white booth as the heat spread inside of him and the movements became smoother started to feel as a part of him. Slowly the situation he was in became clear to him; he was standing with his face against a dirty side of a dirty toilet booth while he was penetrated, sweat and cum dribbling down his legs. For some reason he was not panicking, he even seemed to understand why this was happening and stranger even, he wanted it. He pushed himself up a little lifting and turning his head to see Art. Art’s eyes locked on his, his was worrying, expected Paul to push him off, create some distance between them. His mouth open, still panting while Art thrusted into him. A small smile formed around his lips and his eyes closed again. He quietly moaned as he pushed his ass up to meet Art. Paul had turned, Art knew it, this was a new era in their friendship.


	7. Fifty Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Art can't help being Paul and Art.

Paul’s eyes followed a folded up paper being passed from student to student. In the past he would contemplate if he should confiscate it to the embarrasment of victims, or pretend he didn’t see it. These days it made him nervous since he became the victim of some of those crudely written notes. About a week back he put some boys in detention for it and he knew they weren’t pleased. He also knew they were some of the boys who didn’t approve of homosexuality, thought it was unnatural. The gossips had been there before his and Art’s performance during the music night, but they seemed to have gotten more persistent and they seemed to fuel more hate. Paul often wondered if it was his own fault.

That night didn’t quite end on a high. When he stepped out of the dressingroom back into the open, he thought he got weird looks. Could they see what they had just been doing? Did they guess they showered not because of the heated performance, but because of the intimacy behind closed doors? Unlike before they locked themselves away from their adoring audience, Paul couldn’t enjoy all the praise anymore, his mind was too busy analyzing facial expressions, body language, words. He became convinced at least some of them knew. How long could they do this without anyone interfering? How long could they do this in safety? Was it wise to try and make this work at all? What would they think of them? How would they judge them? This was asking for trouble. Yet, on the other hand, he had a taste of paradise. He discovered who he really was and he finally started to understand why his life thus far had not been particurlarly satisfactory. All the choices he made, all the decisions he took, they were not out of passion or love, they were not because he wanted it, they were because he was afraid and worried he would fall out of line and he would disappoint people.

Art made something very clear, there was love to be found beyond the traditional borders. There were good reasons not to bow to general ideas and ideoligies. There were even better reasons to follow your heart and fullfill your life’s destiny. Paul knew he made the wrong decisions landing him in a laclustre life with a laclustre job that didn’t require all the artistic energy bundled up inside of him. Paul had things to say, cultures to discover and art to shape and express all that variety with. Unfortunately, he had no clue how to get going. He also had a family to support; he couldn’t abandoned them because he wanted to go after a dream. He made a vow, he promised to be there through health and sickness, in the good and bad times. Failing in marriage was something he couldn’t face; it was too big a failure.

Maybe he should stop this nonsense and get real and grownup. He had a family to care for, he had no time for games, he couldn’t put himself and potentionally his family in danger. On the other hand, he had never before known so much passion and he had never been more sure about what he wanted to do and who he wanted to be. Could he afford this trip of discovery? Was it even fair to go ahead and try for another life? What about Olive? How was he ever going to explain to her what happened and why? Did he really want to? Why did life always have to throw such hard challenges and problems?

He let the note go, watching students quietly laugh before passing the note on. Students were not his biggest problem, the teachers were. He couldn’t afford making enemies, he couldn’t afford to have the headmaster as an enemy; he needed this job. He was looking forward to the end of the day; he’d be at Art’s tonight. Then he could concentrate on that evening, making music, talking and joking with Art, possibly, no probably more. Art was a good, passionate yet tender lover. Everything they would be doing tonight Paul wanted, with the person he wanted.

***

It was as if Paul could breath again, as if all the heavy load fell off of his shoulder the moment he stepped over the threshold of Art’s apartment. Paul knew his way around, even developed routines because he was there so often, and Art developed his routine around Paul’s. They always ended their routines in the small livingroom which had gone through some changes to facilitate their regular music sessions. Paul had claimed Art’s desk which now was the habitat of many notebooks filled with song ideas and chords. Art’s math books had moved to a small table in a corner next to the couch. The pile was reaching an impressive height. The tape recorder was sitting on the table in the middle of the room so they had easy access to it. Paul’s spare guitar had found a new home between the desk and one of the bookcases. The lounge chair was moved a little so when Paul was sitting in the chair he was facing Art sitting on the couch. They had done this so often now, they had gotten so used to their routines, it almost happened automatically.

They even settled into an understanding with Joanna. Paul would spend only two evenings at Art’s on Thursday and on Friday, and on the Friday he would even spend the night. The rest of the evenings he was at home with Joanna and the baby, unless they had a performance in one of the clubs. Art always came for dinner on the Wednesday. Joanna always cooked extra so they would have something to eat on the Thursday as well. Paul would take the dirty dishes home that same evening. On Friday it was entirely up to them. Sundays were family time and Paul was expected to be with his family for quality time or to visit family. The Monday was supposed to remain free as well, but on Tuesday Art usually came to get in some extra hours of practice. He always made sure he had eaten before he arrived.

Paul was worried Joanna was suspicious, but she never showed any signs she caught on. Paul and Art did keep to strict rules on Paul’s insistence. They weren’t allowed any touches when at Paul’s house, in case Joanna came walking into the room. Their conversations had to keep to the music making; no discussing of gossips, no discussing new ways of sneaking or better places to hide. It wasn’t hard, they would just focus extra intense on the music. They always got a lot done at Paul’s house.

The Simon’s residence had also adapted to facilitate the music sessions. The attic had been cleaned out and redecorated to function as a makeshift music studio. Paul bought some new recorders and a new guitar which he put in the attic. The guestroom was still Art’s and from time to time he stayed the night on Wednesdays when it got too late to go home.

One such evening, on a Friday at Art’s apartment. They knew they had two days, rehearsals from Friday evening to Saturday afternoon and a performance in a club on Saturday evening. Paul would go home after the performance. Art always looked forward to those evenings, but for some reason he had trouble enjoying Paul’s company. He wanted more, he needed more. He sat daydreaming while he patiently waited watching Paul tuning his guitar. He was also waiting for a good moment to discuss their relationship. He was really looking for a good moment to tell Paul he should divorce Joanna; their marriage wasn’t working. Paul was strained and irritable around Joanna. Art didn’t believe Paul got much pleasure and satisfaction out of his marriage. He even believed Paul was looking for a way out, but he had no idea how to go about it, nor did he really want to discuss it. Art could think of 50 ways for Paul to leave Joanna and even more reasons why he should. Paul dismissed them all out of hand; he didn’t even want to consider it.

Music was Paul’s escape. Art watched him submerge himself putting all obligations off, setting the real world aside for a few moments. Art was all for that normally, but he was nearly bursting now.

“What do you want?” Art suddenly dropped the question.

Paul looked up from his guitar, his fingers still on the strings: “Huh?”

Art pointed from himself to Paul and back: “What is this?”

Paul gave an irritated shake of the head, knowing full well where this conversation was going.

“What do you mean ‘What is this’?” the irritation now also clear in his voice.

Art continued: “What is it you want from me? A side boyfriend for when you had enough of your wife?”

Paul’s brow knitted into a frown: “What you’re talking about?” he avoided answering the question, but reminded Art: “You have a wife too, you know!”

“I’m going to file for divorce,” Art informed Paul. “Our marriage is over and I’d rather be with you, but I need to know you feel the same.”

“I’m not divorcing, if that is what you’re getting at.” Paul was now in full defensive mode.

“Are you so happy with Joanna then?”

Paul shifted uneasy in his seat and started plucking the strings. Art lunged forward and stopped him putting a hand on Paul’s.

“You can’t keep avoiding this conversation, neither can you keep denying your marriage is a failure.”

“My marriage is not a failure!” The outburst might have been full of venom, but even Paul wasn’t entirey sure how sincere he was. Paul took a deep breath to calm himself down. Once he was calm he said: “The marriage is only a failure when it ends in divorce.”

Art wasn’t going to give up: “ And when would you get a divorce?”

“Obviously, when the marriage isn’t working.”

“And when is the marriage not working?”

Paul pulled another annoyed face looking at Art: “Look, we’re here to practice, we have a performance tomorrow and we have a lot to do.”

It was true; they wanted to further perfect some of their harmonies and they added two new songs to their set that desperately needed working out and practice. Art decided to let it go for now.

Paul struck the first chord to set them off. Art matched the chord singing, his melodious voice settling in the melody Paul was playing and embracing Paul’s lead vocal. It was still wonderous to Art how easy it was to fit his voice to Paul’s songs. Paul probably did write towards Art’s voice, to make it fit as perfectly as he could, but it was still ridiculous how little work Art had to do to make these songs sound fantastic. The music carried their earlier discussion away and soon Art had completely forgotten what he had tried to do and make Paul do.

 

A few hours later, in the middle of the night, Art was stumbling around in his bedroom, putting dirty clothes in a pile near the door. 

Paul looked amused at the pile when he came in in just his shorts: “You never going to have clean clothes if you don’t wash them.”

Art hummed knowingly as he crawled into bed pulling the sheets up to his nose. Paul lifted the sheets up higher than he needed to catching a quick glimpse of Art’s pale, thin form under the covers. He also held the sheets up longer than he needed to causing Art to shiver. Once he slid in he pushed himself up against Art, his cold hands on Art’s stomach and shoulder causing Art to scold him and try to pull away from Paul’s grip. It made Paul snigger. When Paul leant in to plant a kiss on his mouth, Art stayed put and let Paul kiss him. When Paul sat back Art’s eyes were wide open staring at him.

Paul knew what was on Art’s mind: “I want to be yours, but I can’t just give up on Joanna. We’ve got a baby together and we have to do everything in our power to make this marriage work.”

Art shuffled out of Paul’s embrace to have a better look at his lover.

“What am I to you? A side lover? A friend with benefits? Or just a casual fuck?”

“Art I…”

Art intererrupted quickly: “Why are you with me and not with your wife at the moment? You really believe this marriage of yours is working? Is it really this marriage that stops you from going where you need to go? I get it, it’s not easy to end it, but there are many ways to break it to Joanna. She doesn’t need to know about us. You can ease her into the idea of being apart, or you can just cut the tie, but you have to do something.”

Art paused for breath and to see how Paul was reacting. He was still, his lips pursed, his eyes dark and unreadable; it made Art nervous.

When nothing was forthcoming from Paul, Art added: “I hate to see you hurt like that. I wish I could do something to make you smile again.”

“You can,” Paul’s answer sounding something between a sob and a plead.

Eventhough Art didn’t want to give in, he shuffled back towards Paul and pulled his small frame into his arms. He kissed Paul while he pushed Paul onto his back moving till he was on top of him. He grabbed Paul’s wrist and pushed them next to Paul’s head into the pillow. Paul pushed back a little, struggling to let Art take control. He trusted Art, he’s been nothing but sweet and caring and he made Paul feel things he never knew he could feel. It was okay to give over control sometimes, as long he was going to get it back at some point.

Paul let go of the tension in his arms and he felt how Art pushed them next to his head deep into the pillow. Paul’s chest was heaving with anticipation and nerves. Art lowered himself on Paul’s still tense body, his lips gracing nose and chin before grabbing Paul’s lower lip with his teeth. He pulled drawing a moan from Paul, biting down slightly causing Paul to hiss in pain. Paul wriggled uncomfortably, a little nervous by this new turn of love making. Art’s finger tips were digging into his wrists, his teeth nipping and biting in his face and neck leaving small red marks. His abdomen was thrusting and pushing, hips grinding against each other, almost too hard for comfort.

Paul’s body reacted in heat, the blood flowing taking adrenaline everywhere. His penis becoming painfully erect, throbbing and leaking pre-cum as the testerone did its work. Paul gasped and moaned as Art kept his assault up, his tongue now deep in Paul’s mouth touching in Paul’s throat. His fingers now digging in Paul’s shoulder keeping him down. Paul could feel Art’s hard on trying to find a way in, but Paul was the wrong way around, so Art just kept stabbing him in his groin, rubbing harshly against Paul’s hard on till they both came.

Paul was still trying to catch his breath when Art sprinkled small kisses all over his face and neck, his hands now feely stroking, gentle and warm. 

“Paul, I understand if you need some time to work out how to deal with this situation, but at some point you have to make a decision. This is not fair to me…or to Joanna.”

Art studies Paul’s face to see the slightest reaction. Paul’s eyes were still dark and staring away from Art. Art was sure he heard him, he was even sure Paul wasn’t ignoring him.

When Paul didn’t react Art decided to put the discussion to a rest, at least for now.

“Why don’t we both sleep on it tonight,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll know what you want to do.”

Paul still didn’t react; he lay motionless on his back and remained that way for a while, even when Art slid off of him to go to sleep.

 

Art’s comments kept Paul awake. The words were floating through his head, prodding and pinching him. Paul knew it wasn’t fair to Joanna, and it probably wasn’t fair to Art either. It wasn’t as simple as Art said it was and if it really was that simple, why was Art still married? Paul just couldn’t face a failed marriage, especially not since Olive was there. Paul made a promise, he took on a responsibility, nothing light-hearted. On the other hand, Joanna was getting on his nerves and he was more often looking for excuses to be out of her way. Then there was Art….

Paul could deny how he felt about Art, it was easy, it was also a lie. Truth was, Paul had fallen in love. How was that even possible? He wasn’t gay. Yet, nothing much mattered if it didn’t matter to Art. Nothing Paul did had much meaning if he couldn’t do it with Art. Never did Paul feel more comfortable and safe than when he was with Art. It was ridiculous how important Art had become to him. It was Art here, there and everywhere.

Paul watched the light of the moon move through the bedroom. The minutes were ticking by slowly while Art was hugging his pillow and making sleep sounds. Paul tossed around in bed, sometimes too confused to move, other times disgusted with himself and then the next in awe with Art again. A few times during the night he put his hand on Art’s bare back stroking the warm flesh, feeling the muscles relaxed and resting. Paul liked the sounds Art produced when he rubbed his back, the moans and hums sweet in the dark room. Paul wanted nothing else in those short minutes, only to abruptly feel disgusted with himself again. He retreated and turned around, his back towards Art. A few times during the night Paul entertained the thought of going home, or at least leaving this house with Art in it. Yet when he thought he was about to do just that, he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to be away from Art, so he stayed.

Paul was snoozing, only vaguely noticing the movement around him. Art got up, took the chance to use the bathroom before Paul was awake. Paul looked so small and so vulnerable; Art wanted to scoop him into his arms, rock him while telling him it was all going to be all right, they would figure it out. Maybe he should make some suggestions, give Paul options how to deal with this situation. Surely, there must be at least 50 different ways to handle this conundrum.

Art took a last look at Paul’s sleeping body before shutting the door behind him. Paul was still in lingering in his head when he was brushing his teeth and Art thought up already five ways to leave your lover before he stepped in the shower for a quick hoze down. The thing was, Art was so deeply in love, he was almost desperate to get Paul out of that marriage. That marriage, Art became more and more convinced, was not Paul’s destiny. Was Paul’s desitny with Art? Art had only once considered building a life with a man, but that didn’t work out either. Men are men and there were no gender bridges to be laid, yet it was still a relationship Art had not been able to nourish or sustain. It was a relationship and like with all relationships, it needed work and it came not only with companionship, warmth and love, but also with compromises, irritations and a whole lot of hard work. Noah had been easy, accomodating and patient with Art, something Paul would possibly not be. No, Art learnt over the last couple of months, Paul was not an easy stroll in the park. Paul was changeable, sometimes charming and lively, other times depressed and grumpy. He also wanted everything done in his particular way which caused many discussions and he could suddenly turn on you without warning. One thing was for sure, being around Paul was quite adventurous and exciting. For the first time in his life Art had sometimes trouble keeping up with Paul instead of running ahead of his partner. 

When he stepped out of the shower he came up with another five ways of changing the situation. The ideas became increasingly more about Art getting the upperhand, instead of pushing Paul towards a more satisfying and healthy private situation. Still, they could all work, if only if Paul decided to take action.

Still damp and steaming from his hot shower Art reentered the bedroom where he found Paul sitting on the side of the bed still trying to wake up.

“Hey, sleepy head,” Art taunted throwing his wet towel at Paul.

Paul made no attempt to catch or avoid the towel and it hit him straight in the face. Art moved over to his wardrobe to pull out clean clothes to wear. Instead of going through the labouring process of trying to mix and match he stopped and turned to look at Paul’s sad frame. That need to scope Paul up in his arms washed over Art again. This time his legs made the decision and he walked over and sat down next to Paul, his right arm looping around Paul’s waist and pulling him into his arms. Paul was surprisingly mellow and laid his head to rest against Art’s shoulder.

“You’re right,” Paul started: “I have to do something.

Then it was quiet again. Art contemplated if he should bring up one of his suggestions, but he didn’t want Paul to get angry with him first thing in the morning, so he kept quiet.

“We could have been one of those Tom & Jerry couples,” Paul mused out of the blue.

Art looked up in confusion: “What?”

Paul turned to him: “Back in the 50’s there were a few duo’s, boys, who recorded records as Tom & Jerry. We could have been one of them, if we met earlier.”

Art had a frown on his face: “How do you even know of those Tom & Jerry’s? I never heard of them.”

Paul shrugged: “I hung around the Brill building a lot, listening in on sessions. I saw a few Tom & Jerry’s being pushed around. It stuck in my mind, because unlike them I knew they were being pushed around, but I still wanted to be in their place…” He added almost inaudibly: “With you as my Tom.”

A small flattered and touched smile appeared on Art’s face. Paul pretended he didn’t see it as he got busy rearranging his clothes on a nearby chair. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes cast down. Art watched him bemused, rosy and in love. He leant in to Paul and gently kissed him on the cheeks. Their eyes met briefly, Paul quickly retreating back into himself so he didn’t have to acknowledge his feelings for Art. That was enough for now; Art knew that was probably as much a love declaration he would get out of Paul for now. It was a step in the right direction.

***

Word was going around town there were a new duo singing folk music in harmonies. People were talking, because it was so different to all the electric offerings and all the rock groups going around these days. There was a quieter, more thoughtful approach missing and these two men seemed to be filling the void. They were not signed to any record label, they had no records out, they both had day job at a high school as teachers. They seemed like the most unlikely people to be music heroes.

Ellis sat across a table watching a blind man feeling around for his drank and his snacks. A few times Ellis nearly jumped to his feet, because he thought glasses where about to be knocked over and snacks shoved to the floor. Nothing of the sort happened, and the blind man happily snacked and drank. At some point his hand felt across the edge of the table till he found Ellis arm.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be intrusive, but I had to check, I was sure Art told me Paul brought a friend. Are you him? Oh, I’m blind, touch is my only confirmation, forgive me.”

Ellis shook his head realizing too late that had no use, so he replied: “That’s all right.” 

Sandy moved his chair closer to Ellis and started a conversation over the humm of the crowd: “How long have you known Paul?”

“About ten to fifteen years,” Ellis roughly guessed.

Sandy nodded: “You met in college? Yeah, so did Art and I. You’re close friends?”

Ellis nodded again to feel really stupid a few seconds later: “Yes, I would say we are. I haven’t seen much of him lately, though. He seems to be spending a lot of time with Art.”

“Yeah, I think he has,” Sandy agreed. “They seemed to have become quite close over the last couple of months.”

Ellis didn’t reply, he was only staring at Sandy trying to figure out what to think of this whole situation. Being around Paul had always been fascinating, Paul really did a lot of things in his way, not bowing to conventional tradition and expectations. Lately, however, it seemed Paul was taking it to another level. From Joanna Ellis understood Paul was spending more and more time with Art. He was more distant and evading of Joanna. So much more even, Joanna suspected Paul wasn’t spending all that time with Art, but had a mistress on the side. Ellis felt sorry for her; she didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Eventhough he was Paul’s old friend, in this case he might pick Joanna’s side. 

Ellis wasn’t only there to see Paul play, but he was also curious about this Art person. When he was with Paul, Art was all he could talk about, Art and the music they were making together. It was all very odd. Not only did Ellis want to meet Art, maybe Art knew more about what else Paul was up to; Paul seemed to be telling a lot of his secrets to him.

“Does my style of conversation offend you?” a voice asked.

Ellis was pulled out of his reverie: “Oh, no! No, not at all. I was just thinking of…uh….of the things that been happening lately.”

“Like Art and Paul spending pretty much all their time together these days?”

“Yes, actually.”

Sandy hummed, a thoughtful frown on his face: “You noticed too huh?”

Knowing Art Sandy wasn’t sure how much he could say; he wasn’t even sure Art was doing what he’d done before. Maybe this time it really was all about music, it sure was something Art was very excited about, gushing to Sandy about how good they sounded together and how well Paul wrote for his voice. With Sandy being in Washington DC he had only spoken to Art over the phone. They would update each other about their activities and projects; Sandy would tell him the proceedings about his mission to end blindness and Art would tell him about how boring school was, but how exciting his private life was. The last couple of months had all been about Paul and their music. So much so about their music, Sandy wasn’t sure what Paul exactly was to Art.

“Are you and Art close?” This time it was Sandy being pulled back into the present.

“Hmmm? Uhm, we used to be closer…We’re still good friends….Art is important to me, he basically put my life back on track…and…well…I owe him everything.”

“Everything? That’s a lot!”

“Yes, it is a lot, but it’s also true. Without Art I wouldn’t have been able to finish grad school.”

Ellis decided to see if Sandy knew more: “You feel he’s spending less time with you and more with Paul?”

“Oh, I live in Washington D.C. these days. We don’t see that much of each other anymore. We keep in contact though….He’s been talking about Paul a lot. Why? Don’t you see Paul that often anymore?”

“He seems to be practizing with Art all the time.”

“Yeah, Art does take his singing very serious.”

“So does Paul; he can be relentless….We used to do little theatrical pieces in school. Paul wrote a lot of the stuff and put us through hours and hours of rehearsals. I think I’m still recovering from that.”

Sandy laughed: “They sound like a match made in heaven.”

Ellis looked around noticing the club got quite a bit busier and a lot of excited people were crowding in front of the stage.

“Quite a buzz,” Ellis observed.

“It got quite a bit busier, huh?” Sandy checked his suspicion.

“Yeah, they seem to really come for Paul and Art.”

“You might be right; I actually heard people talking about them earlier.”

“Really!? So they’re actually good?”

Sandy shrugged: “I don’t know, though Art is a good singer, but I don’t know how good Paul is.”

“Paul is a fairly good guitar player. Not sure about his singing.”

“I’m sure he’s good at singing, otherwise Art wouldn’t be so enthusiastic,” Sandy reasoned.

“If you say so,” Ellis murmured.

 

The lights dimmed and the crowd was getting excited. There were only two mics, a high chair and a table in the back on stage. The regulars knew what to expect; the duo had been playing here before to great success. The setup was very bare; only one guitar and two voices, but it worked. The sparse setting and instrumentation gave room to the voices soaring and blending together. It was truly something else.

Ellis craned his neck to try and see the stage. Being in the back of the venue at a table meant the view was bad to none-existant. Ellis figured he could get up and leave Sandy behind, but that seemed wrong. Besides, it was all about the music and Art strongly requested him to keep Sandy company. One thing Ellis could already say about Art; he was very caring. But Sandy was not a small child, he was a grownup and an intelligent man with strong intuition.

“You want to go stand closer to the stage?”

Ellis felt already guilty: “No no, that’s okay!”

Sandy was already standing up: “I might be blind, but I can stand in crowds.” He was already feeling around the table and moving towards the stage.

Ellis got up in a hurry to make sure Sandy wasn’t tripping and falling and lead him as close to the stage as they could get. Even their entrance was off beat; they came walking up, Art shyly waving while Paul just nodded at the audience before he walked to the table to put down one of his guitars. The other one he hung in front of his chest checking and tuning the strings one last time. Art stood to the left, his hands on his back, looking at Paul and waiting for him to get ready. Just before Paul was to start, Art started fumbling with the height of his mic now leaving Paul to wait for him. They looked odd; Art towering over Paul, his curls a light, fuzzy mess, an unfashionable sweater and black jeans. Paul looked dark, nearly disappearing in the dim light in his black t-shirt and blue faded jeans. Art stood a little hunged forward trying to lessen the height difference, skinny and pale. Paul pulled himself up to his full height, slick, jet black hair, chest puffed out. They stood still. Ellis looked beside him at Sandy, it was such a shame he couldn’t see this odd spectacle.

The guitar sang its first chords and was soon joined by Paul’s voice singing the lead. Then complementing Paul’s vocals, Art’s voice floated in, like a dream on a summer night. The voices wrapped around each other creating this magical harmony. It really was something else. When Ellis looked beside him, he saw Sandy’s face lifted up towards the stage. Ellis wondered how Sandy experienced this performance.

Sandy sang with Art, back in their student room. Art really taught him the joy of singing and singing together. At some point they had gotten quite good. Listening to Art singing with this Paul was a whole other experience. Sandy instantly understood why Art was so enthusiastic about their music. There was something magical to how the voices blended together. Sandy didn’t even know harmonies, vocals could be this different. He could also tell the rest of the audience agreed, because nobody dared to make a sound, afraid of disrupting the magic. Over the whole performance, they didn’t drop a note, they hardly made any mistakes and when they did, the mistakes were so small, most people didn’t even realize they made a mistake. Just by listening, both Ellis and Sandy could tell Paul and Art put a lot of work and a lot of hours into their craft. It really came to show they were both perfectionists.

After Paul and Art finished their performance, the crowd moved in droves away from the stage, pushing and pulling to get through. It made Ellis nervous since a blind man was clutching to his arm trying to keep himself upright. Sandy seemed braver than Ellis, giving him a knowing smile while he stood his ground while Ellis desperately elbowed some people out of the way struggling not to be pushed over and take Sandy down with him in the process. When Ellis saw some space to move back to a table he gently tugged at Sandy’s arm leading him away from the floor. Unscathed they reached a table and Ellis sat Sandy down with obvious relief.

Sandy laughed: “That was quite an adventure, huh?”

Ellis hadn’t recovered enough to find it funny: “Sure…” he replied not loud enough for Sandy to hear. 

“Well, my friend, it seems we’ve been replaced,” Sandy joked.

This time Ellis laughed too: “Yeah, Paul always did complain I never kept up with him.”

Sandy continued: “Mind you, I couldn’t do that anyway.”

“No,” Ellis sighed, “Neither could I.”

Sandy was still confused about Art’s relationship with Paul, so he went back to their earlier conversation: “What do you think about their relationship?”

“Their relationship?” Ellis sounded incredulous. “ You mean, their friendship?”

Sandy explained: “They seem very close.”

Ellis was confused about this line of questioning: “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, they seem very close,” Sandy tried again, this time emphasizing on ‘very’.

“What are you getting at?” 

“Art didn’t take just girls to our room,” Sandy explained.

Ellis was dumbfounded; he didn’t see that one coming. He quickly decided it was a ridiculous notion: “No, they’re just friends. Paul is married, you know!”

“So, is Art,” Sandy informed Ellis.

Ellis was once again speechless: “Really!?” There was no way Paul would go that way. Thinking it over, for Ellis it was clear; Paul was straight, so there was no way Paul and Art were in that kind of relationship.

“No no,” he firmly replied: “Paul is straight; he doesn’t fall for men….Are you sure Art has….done…things..like that?”

Sandy smiled at Ellis’ doubt and disbelief: “It was pretty clear.”

Realizing Ellis was shocked, Sandy apologized: “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I’m so used to Art and how and what he is, I sometimes forget some people lead more traditional lives.”

Ellis was staring ahead, not responding to Sandy. Did Paul know? He should warn him.

Sandy by now had the feeling he was talking to a brick wall: “Listen,” he tried to sooth Ellis’ mind: “I’m not saying he’s in a love with Paul, I was just wondering what you thought. If you say Paul is totally straight, I believe you.”

“I’m sure they’re just really close. You know, like best friends. I know other men who are best friends like that.”

“Sure,” Sandy agreed. “They could be just close friends.”

Sandy understood Ellis needed time to process this new information, so he once again decided to drop the subject. To his relief Art came to their table to take them backstage. Sandy wasn’t even sure Ellis was following them when Art led him to the dressingroom.

Art was once again excited: “What you think of us? Paul wrote all the songs, aren’t they great? And he’s a great guitar player as well.”

“Yeah,” Sandy agreed, “you both were great.”

It turned out Ellis did follow them to the dressingroom and soon they were out of the club and sitting somewhere quiet with beverages and snacks discussing Paul and Art’s performance. Both Paul and Art were in good spirits; the performance had gone well. Sandy noticed the way Paul and Art interacted with each other, only needing half a word, making in-jokes and sometimes even finishing each others sentences. They behaved like a married couple. Ellis was very quiet, observing their banter and analyzing their behavior no doubt, possibly collecting proof Paul and Art were just good friends. Sandy wondered if Ellis was going to confront Paul, Sandy sure hoped to have a good conversation with Art before he went back to Washingto D.C.

***

Art was helpful as always, packing Sandy’s bag and getting him ready to go back to Washington D.C.

“Before I leave, let’s talk; we haven’t talked properly yet.”

Art paused to look at Sandy who sat on the bed waiting for Art to react.

“What you want to know?” Art easily gave in.

“Are you in love with Paul?”

Art was afraid that was what Sandy wanted to know. He played a bit with a piece of clothing, putting answering off as long as he could. Eventually he asked: “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to know that? Do I look like I’m in love?”

Art grimaced at his own question mumbling: “Sorry.”

“Figure of speech,” Sandy waved it away. “You do sound like you’re in love.”

Art threw the clothing in the bag with an exasperated sigh.

“Maybe. Yes..I don’t know!”

Sandy could tell something was nagging at Art: “He’s not in love with you?”

“I told you, I don’t know!”

“No, you didn’t tell me…I talked to Ellis….Paul’s friend…”

“Yes, I know who Ellis is,” Art was now unpacking Sandy’s suitcase and folding his clothes all over again.

“Ellis seems convinced Paul is straight as an arrow.”

Art was laying the neatly folded shirts back in a pile in the suitcase whispering: “Oh.” 

“So, what is going on between you and Paul? And what are you doing to my clothes?”

Art lay the last shirt in the suitcase and closed it: “I’m packing your suitcase.”

“Didn’t you already do that?”

Art went to sit next to Sandy: “Paul’s married and he’s not willing to give up his marriage.”

“Does he love her? Did you two do things?”

Art sighed again: “Yeah, we did, And I think his marriage is pretty much falling apart at the moment. He isn’t home a whole lot, seems to be evading Joanna…Oh, that’s his wife’s name, Joanna.”

“Because of you?”

Art smiled, eventhough he knew Sandy couldn’t see it. “You know Sandy, there’s nothing you can do about this. I appreciate your interest though.”

Sandy huffed: “Interest!? Oh no, it’s purely self-interest. If you run off with Paul, I’m going to have to find another best friend.”

Art laughed: “Naah, you don’t need me! Besides, you’ve got a wife now who can let you out.”

They both laughed. Sandy knew Art didn’t want to talk about it any further, so he let it go.

***

Paul sat on Ellis’ couch eating a salad and suspiciously looking at his old friend. What got into him, he was so quiet? Paul had the dreading feeling Ellis suspected something, but Paul wasn’t ready to talk about it, or explain what was going on. Hell, he hadn’t even quite figured it out for himself. 

Still, he hated this silence so he cautiously tried to start a conversation: “Are you okay? You’re very quiet.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Art lately.”

Paul was immediately suspicious about where the conversation was going. “Does it bother you? I know, I should have called you at least.”

Ellis gave a polite smile: “That’s okay, it’s just…I was talking to Art’s friend, Sandy. He told me Art used to bring boys to their room. I mean, I don’t know if you know that about him.”

Paul’s thoughts were racing through the options he had. He could pretend he didn’t know and act shocked. He could admit he knew and deny anything was going on between and Art and him, or he could come completely clean with Ellis. He wasn’t sure he was ready to come out, but he also wasn’t sure he could lie to Ellis. Right now the middle option seemed the most workable.

“Yeah, Art told me. He’s very open about it.” Paul studied Ellis face to see his reaction.

Ellis seemed unsure for a moment; his mouth half open, a question on his lips. Paul hoped he wasn’t blushing, he hoped Ellis couldn’t read the guild off of Paul’s face.

After a moment hesitation Ellis inquired: “Has he ever hit on you?”

Now Paul was sure he was blushing and he quickly turned to his salad taking a bit bite hoping Ellis didn’t notice. He took his time chewing and swallowing the salad, trying to control his composure.

When he finally swallowed he carefully formulated an answer: “He told me early on he falls for guys. I told him I didn’t.” Paul was actually quite content with the answer, because it was only half a lie. He quickly looked at Ellis to confirm the answer was accepted. Ellis seemed content with the answer too.

Paul felt a little shock going through his body when Ellis dropped a last question: “So you and Art are just friends?”

“Yeah!” Paul replied too quickly to his own liking, but the reply satisfied Ellis.

Ellis had his confirmation, but something was still not right: “Are you spending all your time with Art?”

Paul seemed disappointed the conversation wasn’t finished. In frustration he couldn’t help but snap: “Yes! Why!?!?”

“Joanna thinks you’re cheating on her.”

Paul let the fork descend into his salad. For a moment he didn’t know what to say.

“You are spending a lot of time away from home. You’re sure there’s no-one else?”

It slowly dawned on Paul Ellis thought he was seeing another woman: “No, there’s no-one else! I’ve been working on our music with Artie. Honestly!”

Ellis was staring at him, trying to decide if he should believe Paul and trying to figure out how to make clear something was wrong in his marriage.

Paul sighed as he put the salad on the table with a clunk: “Okay, you’re right; Joanna and I aren’t doing great at the moment. Marriage is nothing like I imagined it to be. It’s hard, you know. I just need some time to work things out.”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to Joanna about this?”

“Yeah, I’m going to,” Paul assured Ellis.

Ellis didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go with an: “Okay…”

***

Art noticed Paul was particularly restless, moving around Art’s small living room without direction or goal. Art sat on his couch watching; he could guess what was bothering Paul. Since their performance, the one Sandy and Ellis attented, Paul’s visits had been less frequent. He was catching up with what Ellis was doing, was Paul’s excuse. That was fine, but what Art didn’t like was Paul retreating at school as well. Paul was not an easy talker, not when it came to personal issues. Another reason why they hadn’t discussed their relationship and how to proceed was Art’s inability to talk emotions and personal relationships. On top of that, every time they tried to discuss their relationship, somehow they couldn’t seem to be able not to start squabbling. So all that needed saying remained unsaid and Paul kept wandering the room like an aimless zombie with Art sort of ignoring it.

Art was about to suggest to just start practice when Paul stopped wandering around, sighed loudly and turned to Art.

“Ellis asked if I knew you fall for guys. Ellis also thinks I’m cheating on Joanna. He’s been talking to her; she might have put that idea in his head. I think Joanna thinks I’m cheating on her.”

Art stopped playing with the paper in his hand and gave Paul an exasperated look.

“It’s hardly surprising Joanna thinks you’re cheating on her,” Art said.

Paul gave a defeated look back as Art continued: “You are cheating on her,” emphasizing ‘are’.

Paul knew where this conversation was going and he was already waving it away when Art started his whine.

“Paul! You have to do something and I still think it’s best to end things with Joanna.”

“It’s not that easy, Art!”

“No, nothing’s easy about this! Talking about this with you isn’t easy! Talking to anyone about this isn’t easy!! Doing this, being in a relationship with you isn’t easy!!! Just doing the relationship with you isn’t easy!!!” Art was really shouting at this point.

Paul gritted his teeth, his lips curling in anger, his eyes dark like the night; a storm was oncoming.

Paul was seething: “Unlike you, I treat people with respect. I take my responsibility and unlike you, I don’t live in a dreamworld where everything goes according to Art Garfunkel’s ways,” his voice was a low, calm threat, one with menace and controlled anger.

Paul’s anger only fed Art’s and Art preferred to avoid fights like these as much as possible. Without even thinking about it he got up and stormed out of the room and out of his house cursing and spitting while he did it. 

Paul was left behind, still gritting his teeth and staring angrily at the door Art had just disappeared through.


	8. When the Wind Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Art can't help being Paul and Art, once again.

Art walked for hours cursing and spitting, stomping along streets and elbowing his way through crowds. Unbelievable! Art wondered why why he put up with Paul and why he let Paul control his life like that. Art was a little surprised he let Paul control his life, or at least have a heavy influence on what Art was doing and in some cases even how he was doing things. Paul had an opinion on everything. Paul had a strong opinion on most things and he wasn’t afraid to show it. He was also argumentative, sensitive and very self-aware which lead into him being rather insecure which in turn made him even more sensitive and out of defense even more argumentative. Paul was locked in that cycle and it seemed he captured Art and held him a prisoner in the same cycle.

Somehow, Art could deal with that most of the time. This situation made it hard. It was clear Paul had to make some decisions and act accordingly, but he simply didn’t want to, because he was afraid of being hurt, of landing himself into a difficult situation. Art really did understand it was difficult, but he couldn’t go on like this, in this twilight of a relationship where he was here nor there.

His head was full of thoughts spurring his hearts which was full of emotions which in turn spurred on more thoughts. Art had trouble calming down, but walking helped. Before he realized it he walked all the way downtown and he stood empty hearted and eyes glazed over staring at the Brooklyn bridge. He turned around and walked back uptown. Not home, but as far uptown as he could. Home was somewhere he didn’t want to deal with right now, because there was a person he didn’t want to deal with right now.

Normally by walking the problem would go away or a solution would form in Art’s head. This time something heavy was lodged deep in his heart. Art never met anyone like Paul before. He didn’t want to, but he loved him, all the way through the hatred. Was it hatred really? Art wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something. It was something Art never experienced before, a hurting and a longing to be around someone. He needed to be around Paul, even though he couldn’t stand watching Paul fret and complain about everything. Yes, Paul was all defensive and controlling, but he was also really smart, very funny and driving them to go where hardly anyone had gone before, doing what hardly anyone had done. Art loved that about Paul and he would follow him to the end of the world to bring their music somewhere new.

They were strangely well suited for each other, no matter their differences. It puzzled Art, it frightened him as much as it delighted him. It was something he couldn’t, didn’t want to, get away from.

A few hours after he left his house and walked the streets, he was standing at an outskirt of New York looking away from the city. He could keep walking till enough time had passed they could pretend their little fight never happened. Yes, Paul probably needed the time anyway.

***

Paul could feel his fingernails pinching in his fists. His vision was returning; he could see a brown door, slammed shut. Paul had no idea how long he had been standing there like that. He did remember having a terrible fight with Artie; that was hard to miss. Through it all he wondered why it mattered so much to him, what made Art different compared to everyone else? Paul had arguments with people before, he even had fights with people before. Never before did it hurt so much, did he feel so offended, did he feel so wounded. Never before was he so angry because of all people Art should understand. The man was even worse than Paul, being married to a woman he never sees while he gets around and has fun with others. How could he justify that? If someone should divorce, it was Art, not Paul. Paul’s marriage had a chance and Paul couldn’t just give up on his family like Art had on his wife. No, Art was in no position to tell him what to do.

Paul could feel his lips tremble as he pursed them together in an angry grimace. The air in the room felt dense and heavy to breath to Paul; he was still in Art’s living room. Realizing that put Paul in abrupt motion, grabbing his stuff and coat and getting the hell out of there. He was still decent enough to close the door before he left, though the door remained unlocked. Paul strode away not looking back. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he was going to walk till he felt he could breathe again. For some reason tears were now pushing past his eyes and onto his face. Why was he crying? This was ridiculous.

When he was a teenage boy, he imagined his friendship with Art to be all kind of things, but not this complicated and intense. To his shame, he had to admit some of those dreams had been sexual. He admitted that to himself only a few weeks before and now he was ready to deny it again. It didn’t do away with the knot in his stomach. Nor did it decrease the need Paul felt to be close to Art. Even Though nothing with Art was ever the way Paul fantasized it up or even hoped for, in the case of their intimacy, Paul had nothing to complain. Art was sweet, loving and devoted. Art was always all the way in and truly adored Paul. No one had ever loved him like that before; it was heartwarming and suffocating at the same time. Paul wanted it, because it made him feel safe and secure, but sometimes he had to breath.

He could never have imagined the real Art Garfunkel. He could have imagined him to be shy, smart and very talented at singing and maybe he did. He could never have guessed how honest and sincere Art was in everything he did and said. He could never have dreamt up how weird and eccentric Art could be. Art Garfunkel was a real character who could only exist in reality. Paul was intrigued by him, by his self-made character, the code Art lived by and the way it informed his behavior. Paul had never before met anyone who paid so little attention to popular believes, common social attitudes and accepted lifestyles. He was a truly unusual man.

Maybe Paul’s fascination came from his own quite different way of going about things. To Paul other people’s opinions did matter and a lot of his confidence was based on what other people thought of him and the work he put out. Maybe it was the contradiction that attracted Paul, or maybe it was Art’s confidence in Paul’s abilities and talents and his constant support and enthusiasm for what Paul did. It sure all helped.

Paul found himself standing in a lift going to the fifth floor of an hotel. He just booked himself in because he was not feeling like spending the night at home. He needed to think. He needed some space for himself. Staying in Art’s apartment didn’t seem right. Maybe the change of scenery would clear things up. He soon found his hotel room and quietly retreated into his room skipping dinner and sitting on the bed thinking. It seemed impossible to put Art out of his mind. Every time Paul tried to resolve his home situation he soon deviated to thoughts about Art. The things that annoyed Paul about him, the things he loved about Art, or admired or confused him. Paul found himself comparing fictional Art to the real Art; he wasn’t quite sure which one he liked best. Without thought his left hand found his crotch and he started to warm up thinking about Art. Old fantasies mixed with memories, Paul could feel Art’s warm skin under his fingertips.

Art’s skin was pale and clear. Paul could make goosebumps appear and limbs tremble. The grey blue eyes looked up at him, hungry for intimacy, silent adoration, sparkling in a face with angelic features. Paul kissed the soft contours of his cheeks and jaw, the soft rosy lips. Paul could taste him warm and soft and sharp edges of teeth. Four hands roamed two bodies, Art’s fingers pressing and rubbing slowly firming up Paul’s cock. He knew exactly how, where to press or rub and when to stop or continue, playing with the tensions building up in Paul. Paul gasped as the long fingers closed around him and pulled, rubbing and pressing, the rhythm gradually increasing in speed till the hand squeezed the cum from Paul’s erection.

Paul opened his eyes. He was back in the empty hotel room, still by himself covered in his own release, feeling utterly alone.

***

Paul wasn’t surprised not to find Art at school when he arrived. He wasn’t even that worried when Art still wasn’t there when he went to his first class; Art had a tendency of being a little late. He did get worried when Art still hadn’t arrived at lunch time and nobody could tell him where he was. He didn’t call in sick. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t contacted the school at all. Paul called home to see if Art had tried to reach him there. He could only reach an angry Joanna who demanded to know where the hell he had been last night. Paul called Art’s house, but no-one answered the phone, like no-one had when the headmaster had tried earlier. Soon it was clear why nobody picked up the phone; nobody was there. Where could he be? 

The day went by without a word from Art. Then the week was over and the school got in contact with his wife asking if she knew where he was. His classes, at first canceled, were now divided over the remaining maths teachers whenever they got time for the next week.   
Knowing Art, Paul wasn’t that worried. Knowing what happened between them and how strongly Art felt about them together, Paul suspected he was hiding away to avoid confrontation and to take the rest to sort it all out in his head.

Then another week went by and still not a word from Art. At this point even Paul started to worry. Did something happen? Was he alright? Why didn’t he get in contact with the school? He could do that at least. Paul got in contact with Sandy, the only other person he knew was a friend of Art and the school likely didn’t contact. Sandy didn’t know where Art was and if he was alright, but he would call around to see if other friends heard from him. After two days he got back in contact with Paul: Nothing, no word from Art, even Art’s wife didn’t know where he was. Sandy, knowing Art longer and better than Paul, told him to wait a little longer; Art sometimes disappeared for lengthy times. He once booked an impromptu flight to Europe to see what was going on there without letting anyone know. Sandy only found out two weeks later when he received a postcard from Italy. Art also once rode out on his motorbike and only called home when he reached the west-coast. Sandy assured Paul, Art could look after himself; he was probably travelling somewhere and taking his time with it.

It didn’t calm Paul’s nerves. While he was relieved not having to face Art in the first week, he would now gladly do so, if only to find out Art was alive and well.

***

Paul cautiously unlocked and opened the front door. He listened in before pushing it open en entering the house. He was trying to walk in on them doing...doing whatever. He wanted to catch them red handed, unexpected and irrefutable. When he didn’t hear anything much he pushed the door open further and peeked in just as someone was walking from the kitchen to the living room. 

“Hey Paul!” a man’s voice greeted him.

Paul couldn’t do anything but step inside the hallway and greeting his old friend.

“Hi Ellis...You’re here again.”

“Yes, you didn’t call in,” Ellis replied as if it was an excuse.

Paul pulled a face: “Christ, Ellis. I’m not a little child; Joanna doesn’t need to know where I am 24/7.”

Paul looked Ellis up and down; he looked as usual, shirt over jeans, but no shoes, on socks, as if he lived here.

“You spend the night here?” Paul inquired.

Ellis face retorted into an offended grimace: “No! Why you ask that!?”

“You seem to have made yourself feel right at home.” 

“Oh, c’mon Paul! I’ve been coming here since you two moved in. I’ve always felt right at home. You even once told me to do just that.”

“Yeah,” Paul sort of admitted. “Don’t get too comfortable though.”

Ellis shook his head as he watched Paul hanging his coat on the coat rack and empty his bag of empty lunch boxes.

“What are you implying?” Ellis did a quick check to see if Joanna wasn’t anywhere near. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper: “Who’s to say you’re not the one cheating on her?”

“I’m not cheating on her,” Paul quickly said. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. He hoped he wasn’t giving himself away.

Ellis studied his face, not so sure anymore he should believe Paul. Maybe he should shadow him, and see what Paul was really up to. Did he really spend all that time with Art, or did he sneak around to some lady too?

It was true, Ellis had been spending a lot of time with Joanna lately. Not to have an affair with her, but because she was feeling so lonely. She had also reached out to Ellis, because if there was anyone who knew Paul, it was Ellis. She hoped Ellis could give her some insight in what was going on. The longer they talked, the more they became convinced Paul was cheating on her. So yes, Ellis had been at the Simon’s house a lot lately. He had been there quite a few times when Paul, finally, got home. Paul had walked in on them while they were sitting in the lounge talking. He had also walked in on them when Ellis was comforting Joanna. Yes, he could get the wrong idea from that, but Ellis and Joanna weren’t exactly tiptoeing around him, nor did either of them show any guild, because they felt none. Paul however seemed to be sneaking in and out of the house, barely talking, barely engaging with them. He would only take out some time to play a little with Olive. Then just as sudden he would disappear again, sometimes for days on end.

Joanna called the school; Paul was in, everything was alright, nothing unusual. She also called Art and Art would ensure her Paul was there. Was he covering for Paul? A few times Joanna had asked for Paul on the phone; she never managed to catch him out, Art only once or twice made up excuses for Paul. So far, Joanna nor Ellis had managed to collect any evidence Paul was cheating on Joanna. Still, something wasn’t right.

Paul was ready to get his stuff upstairs. He paused a few seconds to study Ellis’ face and composure, only to realize Ellis was doing the same to him. Paul quickly averted his eyes and started up the stairs out of sight of Ellis. This situation was getting very complicated.

When Paul got back downstairs he found both Joanna and Ellis in the kitchen. Joanna was cooking and Ellis was playing with Olive at the kitchen table. Paul immediately walked up to Ellis and took the little girl off of Ellis’ lap. He proceeded to sit on the other side of the table wiping Olive’s toys with one arm to where he wanted to sit. Ellis let him, but found the action rather offensive. Also Joanna wasn’t impressed with what Paul did, but Paul ignored both and focused all his attention on his infant daughter.

“Paul!” Joanna accusingly started. Paul ignored her.

“What’s the matter with you!?” she yelled.

Paul now looked up irritated, using their daughter to try and calm Joanna down. Joanna, knowing exactly what Paul was doing, bit her lip and glared angrily at her husband before resolutely turning back to her cooking. He wasn’t going to get away with this; she was going to confront him later.   
Ellis felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Paul ignoring him, as if he wasn’t there at all, was uneasy. Joanna squeezing his shoulder was making him wish he wasn’t there. He didn’t want to get caught in the middle here. First of all, he wasn’t a marriage breaker, but mainly, Paul was one of the last study buddies he had left, and they were genuine friends. Or at least they had been once; Ellis wasn’t so sure about the status of their friendship anymore.  
They spent a few more minutes not talking to each other. The only noises were Olives happy cackle, toys rattling and Joanna’s louder than usual cooking. Someone needed to do something to break this tense situation.

“Heard from Art yet?” he tried to change the subject. Not exactly a light subject, but at least some distraction.

Paul looked up at him, finally. Ellis was relieved to see a softer expression in his eyes. It didn’t last though; Paul bent his head returning his attention to Olive mumbling: “No, not yet.”

“Nothing at all?” Ellis was surprised; it had been two weeks now.

Paul looked pained when their eyes met again.

“You’re worried, huh?” Ellis tried to continue the conversation scared he would lose Paul again.

Paul sighed: “Yeah, of course; he’s my friend.”

“Did you alarm the police?” 

“No, not yet. His friends don’t seem to be worried. Apparently, he does this from time to time.”

“Tricky,” Ellis pointed out: “What if something did happen to him? You would only find out three weeks later. If you’re lucky.” Ellis immediately wished he hadn’t said that; Paul looked absolutely horrified now. So he swiftly added: “I’m sure he’s alright. Probably doing...whatever he does when he disappears.” 

Paul lifted Olive up and gave her back to Ellis. A few moments later they could hear Paul talking on the phone to someone asking if there was any news about Art. 

***

The light shone dimly through the front door. A shadowy figure stood silently waiting. Thera was surprised to have visitors this late; it made her cautious. She had already secretly checked from an upstairs window. She had been quiet spying the late visitor, yet he caught her out and he was staring up at her when she peered down. Her initial reaction was shock, till she realized who it was. Her initial shock was replaced with relief, but also worry and confusion, but mainly anger. She lightly descended the stairs and turned the light on. She could see through the front door window how the lone figure trembled in the evening breeze. It was all very confusing; wasn't he supposed to be in New York? Didn't he have classes the next morning?

"Art," Thera said, her voice a mixture of worry and anger.

Art smiled weakly at her and inched inside narrowly brushing between the door and Thera.

"Why are you here?" Thera expressed her confusion.

Now that Art was standing in the hallway's light did Thera see how disheveled Art looked. 

She made an educated guess: "Did you walk all the way from New York?"

Art looked up at her as if in surprise, his voice sounding as surprised as he looked: "Yes."

"Does school know you were walking here? From New York to Michigan is far!"

Art sounded even more surprised when he replied: "No....No, they don't know."

“How long did it take you? I mean, everybody was worried about you! You should have called! Ellis called…Quite a few times, actually.”

Art gave his wife a sad and confused look.

“…and your boyfriend,” Joanna added testing how Art would react.

Art grimaced at the words ‘your boyfriend’.

“Gawd,” Thera gasped as she reviewed Art’s state. “Why don’t you go take a shower? Are you hungry? I’ll cook something.”

Art nodded and turned to ascend the stairs. His arms hanging heavy alongside his body and his feet dragging his slouching body up the stairs. Thera watched concerned and bewildered. If only Art could talk, if only, for once, he could express what was bothering him. Thera could make an educated guess.

 

About thirty minutes later Art was clean and felt a bit more clear about what happened the last couple of weeks. He had been walking, almost non-stop. He walked during daytime and nighttime if he wasn’t too exhausted. He couldn’t quite decide how he kept himself alive; he must have stopped to eat in several places, but Art couldn’t really recall those places or what he had eaten. A good meal sounded like a good idea and the smells from the kitchen were actually alluring to Art so he went downstairs to find his wife in the kitchen setting the table for him. When she heard him she looked up, an encouraging smile on her face and her hand gesturing him to sit down. He did as he was told. She scooped hot soup onto a plate and put it in front of him. He ate it gratefully, not only because his stomach was asking for filling, but also because he hadn’t figured out yet what to say.

“Have you been fighting with Paul?” Thera suddenly asked causing Art to nearly spit out his soup.

He gave her a wary look before returning to his food.

“Art, you should really restrain yourself; not everybody appreciates elaborate discussions and you can be a bit full on.”

Art shook his head between gulps: “You don’t know Paul.”

His wife agreed: “Obviously not. Are you sure it doesn’t scare him away?”

“If anything, he’s worse than me…..I mean, he likes a good discussion and doesn’t exactly shy away from it.”

“Did you have a fight?” Thera tried again.

Art ignored her and spooned the last of the soup into his mouth.

Thera waited till Art swallowed the soup before asking again: “Did you fight?”

Art rolled his eyes as he pushed his plate away: “We had words,” he mumbled.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why did you come walking all the way here?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I needed to clear my head, create some distance, get away from him for a little while.”

“Why did you feel the need?”

“Because the situation asked for it.” Art was now getting irritated.

“Stop evading the subject! Christ! You haven’t changed a bit!”

Art threw the accusation right back at her: “Neither have you; I suddenly remember why I left in the first place.”

This time it was Thera who rolled her eyes. She stood up pushing the chair violently backwards and lunged for Art’s empty plate: “You had enough?”

Art nodded and got up to go to the lounge to watch tv. Thera’s eyes followed him out of the door as she shook her head. To her it was clear why Art came home; he was searching for help for a personal problem and he hoped Thera would help him figure it all out.

 

After doing the dishes Thera joined her husband in the lounge. She turned the tv off and positioned herself next to him giving him her best empathic look. Art shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking everywhere but at Thera.

“You must care deeply for him,” Thera deducted.

Art fidgeted with his fingers still not looking at her.

Thera continued hoping this new strategy would work: “What was it that hurt you so much?” 

Art pulled a pained face: “We’re stuck. He doesn’t want to progress any further.”

“And you do?”

“Yes!” Art huffed, but calming down quickly again.

“I do get it’s not easy, with his wife and daughter and everything, but he’s standing still; he’s not doing anything to resolve the situation.”

He looked at Thera anxiously. In return she rubbed his shoulder smiling gently.

Art sighed: “I’m not even sure he wants to take our relationship any further.”

“This relationship is really serious for you?”

“Yes!” Art sounded surprised again; Thera was not sure if that was because he expected her to know that, or because he was surprised at the answer himself.

“I see,” she said buying herself some time to think of what to say next.

Art stared into nothing for a while, the quietness filling the room. Suddenly he became animated and he declared: “I love him.”

Thera was taken aback by that sudden passionate declaration; it left her speechless for a while.

Art now looked directly at her: “Go for it or move on without him; that’s what I need to do, isn’t it?”

Glad he came up with the answer himself, Thera nodded in agreement.

He was already planning how to put the choice to Paul when something else dawned on him. He slumped back into his seat looking defeated once again.

“What?” Thera asked worried wondering how the plan had already fallen apart.

“I’m not sure I can move on without him.”

“Well, you’re going to have to do something.”

***

Meeting with the headmaster should make him nervous, he had been absent from school for nearly three weeks, but he couldn’t care less. It was facing Paul and explaining their options that made him nervous. He was nervous about what Paul had to say about it and what he choose to do. Like he confessed to Thera, he wasn’t sure he could do without Paul, which in turn meant he wasn’t sure he wanted to give Paul that choice, move on or end it. What else could he do? 

The headmaster looked grim when he invited Art into his office. He didn’t look pleased, maybe even angry. Art shuffled inside with an apologetic smile.

A few feet away a small dark figure with dark eyes was peeking around the corner registering it was definitely Art Garfunkel who just went into the headmaster’s office. He had things to say to Art Garfunkel as well. He had a lot of time to think about things, work a few things out. One of those things were his feelings for Art. He couldn’t deny there was something between them, but he wasn’t sure what that something was.

When did Art return? Was he still angry with Paul? Was that the reason Art hadn’t reached out to him yet? Because of professional obligations, Paul understood why one of Art’s first visits were to the headmaster’s office, but still...Hadn’t they build up a special relationship? 

Art was in there for a long time. Paul wondered if he was being fired. Did it take that long to fire someone? Or was he reprimanded? If so, the headmaster would probably go through all the things he’d done wrong and tell him what he needed to do to keep his job. Maybe the headmaster was asking after Art’s private life, trying to figure out why he suddenly disappeared for three weeks. That thought made Paul nervous. What if Art told him about their relationship? What if their secret was out? Would the headmaster accept that? Or should Paul worry about his own job too? If the secret was out, Paul better made plans about his marriage as well, or what was left of it. If Joanna was really having an affair with Ellis, well...he could have her! Paul felt a lump lodging in his throat, nervous all his worries were coming true. He wasn’t sure he could cope; it was a whole lot of changes and who knows were it would land him. Coming out as gay was a definite problem; it would probably close quite a few doors for him and it could potentially put him in a lot of danger. Paul had enjoyed the excitement Art brought, but now it scared him to death.

His eyes were still firmly fixed on the headmaster’s door. It took long and during the time Paul stood there waiting, he could feel his knees slowly fail. Somehow he was still standing, clamping the wall for support, when the door finally opened and the headmaster showed Art out. Art didn’t exactly look relieved; did he get fired?

Paul was still not moving when Art turned the corner he was hiding behind. Art walked past for a few steps till he realized Paul was standing there, looking over his shoulder at Art.

“Paul!” Art exclaimed in surprise.

Paul didn’t reply, just gave Art his big brown puppy eyes and Art felt himself melt. He couldn’t do it, but he had to.

“Walk with me,” Art instructed. Without a word Paul did as he was told and they walked to Art’s office.

Art’s office looked a lot like his apartment. There was a desk in the middle of the room, papers and books piled up. There was a writing set to the left on the desk and a dirty coffee cup to the right, standing under an elegant desk lamp. There were two bookshelves filled with books. Under the shelves stood a chair being used as a coat rack. Art walked around the desk to sit down behind it. Paul quietly closed the door behind him.

“Are you alright?” Art asked.

Paul was nonplussed by Art’s question: “You disappeared for three weeks!”

Art ignored Paul’s statement: “You seemed a little worried and upset.” 

“I was just wondering what you were talking about in there, with the headmaster.”

“Oh,” Art waved it away: “Don’t worry about that.”

“I thought he might ask about us.”

Now Art was nonplussed: “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know..”

“Listen, it’s alright. I just have to be at my best behavior for a while, but it’ll be fine.” 

“Oh, good,” Paul sighed relieved.

After that, neither of them was really sure how to proceed. Paul studied Art’s somewhat less than cared for appearance, but was glad he was back alive and well. Art was waiting for the right time to put the choice to Paul. The longer he waited, the harder it got. He didn’t want to run the risk of losing Paul. He was perplexed when he heard his own voice say: “About what happened…”

This was the moment to move this thing forward or out of the way.

“Hmmm….Can we just drop it? I don’t really want to talk about it,” Paul said as he waved the conversation away. 

Art readily agreed: “Yeah, sure. Let’s drop it.”

He wasn’t surprised he did that just disappointed, but he was sure he could deal with this sustained situation; at least he was with Paul again, exactly where he wanted to be.

“Hey, what did you do about those gigs we had planned?” Art changed the subject.

“I did one on my own. It wasn’t the same without you. I canceled the second one.” Paul was relieved they could go back to a situation a lot like before their fight.

Art suddenly stood up and started gathering his stuff together: “Why don’t we go to my place and start practising the upcoming gigs. I believe we have some more planned.”

Paul frowned: “Don’t you have to prepare class for tomorrow?”

Art didn’t look at Paul, but kept putting stuff in his bag when he responded: “I already spoke to my colleagues; it’ll be fine. Besides, I only just got back. Give me some time to readjust.”

Paul shook his head, but he was in no mood to protest and he actually looked forward to lose himself in music again; three weeks without harmonizing with Artie felt like forever.

 

It was just like before. Art sat freshly showered in his usual place on the sofa working on some harmonies. Paul sat behind the desk working on a song he wasn’t quite happy with. He peeked at Art from time to time, trying to discover the slightest change, anything that would give away what Art had been doing those three weeks. Scared of breaking their new found peace, Paul didn’t dare ask, nor did he classify it as important enough to know. It was Art, and apparently that was what he did from time to time.

Art got up and walked to Paul, paper in hand with his scribbles on it. 

“I think I worked it out,” he said presenting the paper to Paul.

Paul took the paper to see what harmonies Art came up with, his eyes swiftly scanning the paper. It looked good, it looked interesting, it looked dangerously dissonant in places.

“You wanna try it?” Art asked.

Paul turned and grabbed his guitar: “Yeah, let’s see how this works out.”

Paul went to sit in his usual spot while Art returned to the sofa. They were facing each other, like they had so many times. Paul noticed the sparkle in Art’s lively grey blue eyes, intently looking at him. Paul knew Art was simply waiting for Paul to give him his cue, but it still looked like Art wanted more than just a cue from Paul. What else could he want?  
Art noticed Paul’s eyes scanning his face. What was he looking for? What was he thinking? As usual Art was once again not entirely sure what was going on in Paul’s head. He suspected a whole lot more than he could imagine; Paul’s brains were constantly going, feverishly observing and analyzing his surroundings and planning his latest strategy. Art suspected Paul’s life was a lot like a war room, constantly in motion and preparing to attack or defend. At this moment, Art was just waiting for the cue, but Paul was dawdling, too busy trying to look through Art.

So Art went: “What!?”

Paul shook and bent his head, his eyes on his strings: “Nothing.” He was still not playing. “I just missed you.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Art was suddenly around Paul kissing his face. “I missed you too.”

Paul shrunk a little in Art’s embrace, like a little child in the protective arms of his mother. Art wrapped his arms around Paul hugging him tightly. It was good to feel Paul’s small frame in his arms again. It was then Art could really feel Paul’s vulnerability and the one time Paul let himself be vulnerable. Those moments were precious to Art. The moment Art let go Paul pulled away embarrassed, not looking Art in the eyes. Art let him, once again, and returned to his spot on the sofa, softened by the experience.

Paul’s eyes were firmly on the strings when he started playing. Luckily he gathered enough bravery when it was time to give Art his cue and their voices almost immediately found each other and danced in unison through the room. Their faces lit up as the harmony lines soared and created this remarkable sound. Their voices became one, became a new identity, suggested a new more complete individual. This was how they created a perfect person together, almost like love making. If they could manage to always be this way….

When the song was over they let the silence descend again. Their eyes met as they both tried to get the measure of the other man. Everything seemed like before, but it felt different. Did something break? Were they more careful around each other, more calculated? Didn’t they trust each other completely anymore? Or did they just find a small hurdle they needed to take?

Whatever it was, it stopped the free manner they used to be together. Nothing was easy anymore. They went from a new exciting freeing friendship, to one with its own limits. Neither was quite sure where that limit was and how to deal with it. They could ignore it and move on pretending everything was still the same. The jokes still flowed freely. The arguments were still geared towards getting the best possible music. They still only needed half a word to understand what the other was saying. All that was still the same and it was easy to pretend that was all they needed, for now.

“That was good,” Art remarked desperate to break the silence.

Paul, grateful for Art’s interference nodded: “Yeah, but I think we need to work on the chorus. I think we can do better.”

***

Before long they settled back in their old routines as if the fight never happened. Art would spend one evening at the Simon’s eating Joanna’s dinner and Paul would spend some time at Art’s. In both cases their excuse was their music. Joanna tried to invite Art to come over for some more evenings, but neither Paul nor Art was interested in that. Joanna hoped to bind Paul more to home, so she could keep an eye on him and reduce opportunities for him to go see his misstress. She also asked Art if he knew if Paul was seeing another woman, which Art, without trepidation, denied. Ironically, Paul had asked Art what he thought of his wife’s relationship to Ellis, to which Art honestly answered he didn’t think about it at all, neither was he convinced they were having an affair. Paul wouldn’t have any of that; he was convinced they were involved with each other.

Art was the only one with whom Paul felt safe and comfortable. So he relaxed at Art’s place, juice on the coffee table, a half eaten plate of Chinese food, guitar in his lap. Art still had his plate in his lap, but was happy enough to sing some choice melody lines. As long they didn’t think too hard about their relationship, or about the rest of their obligations and life, as long they focussed on this moment, they could keep up the illusion of a perfect relationship, with the perfect partner, in a perfect moment. They were just playing, no serious working on songs, just enjoying the music, the relaxed mood and each other’s jokes and companies. It was so easy, it was so nice not to have to explain themselves, to have the other person understand exactly what was meant. In those moments their admiration and love for each other grew.

Art finally put his plate on the table and Paul thought he was getting up to get some more to drink, but instead Art bent down, put his hands around Paul’s face and kissed him passionately on the lips. Paul was a little taken aback so he sat still letting it happen, the rush of excitement and longing for more intimate contact rushing back. He hummed indicating his pleasure, which made Art smile. Paul’s face still in his hands, he connected with Paul, his blue sparkling eyes locking onto Paul’s dark soulful eyes. Paul felt butterflies taking flight in his stomach. Art’s thumbs were sweetly stroking Paul’s cheeks and his lips kissed the tip of his nose. 

Just as unexpected as the kiss, Paul was suddenly lifted off of his seat and layed down onto the coffee table, the wood creaking under his weight. Out of nowhere Art produced some industrial rope and managed to wrap it around Paul’s left wrist. Paul was so confounded he didn’t struggle very much when Art pulled his left wrist above his head and tied it to the coffee table leg. Tying Paul’s right wrist was more of a struggle, but the case was soon won when Art proceeded to sit on Paul’s arm and used not only hands but also knees to get Paul’s wrist in position. Paul lay on the coffee table, chest heaving from the struggle. Art stood next to the coffee table looking down on him and admiring his work.

“Artie!?” Paul panted.

Art didn’t respond, but went into the kitchen instead. Paul could hear him rummage through some drawers. What was he looking for? He came back in with some scissors and Paul knew what Art was about to do.

“Art, no! I only brought one clean shirt and that’s for the performance.”

Art sat down next to Paul and got to work: “We’ll buy you a new shirt.” Then he cut in the hem of the shirt till he revealed Paul’s belly button. Next he cut the sleeves open over Paul’s shoulder till he could remove the shirt from Paul’s arms. His last action was to rip the shirt away starting at the cut ripping it open till it revealed chest and neck. Casually he tossed the shirt aside, his eyes on Paul’s jeans planning to remove it as soon as possible as well. Paul’s eyes were big, his pupils dialated. He didn’t like not being in control, but it was also really hot to put his faith in Art’s hands. Removing Paul’s jeans was relatively easy. Paul tried to kick at Art, but from his position it just meant he didn’t hit Art and instead helped sliding the jeans off of his legs to Paul’s annoyance. Paul’s underwear was removed with the scissors.

Art stood aside watching Paul writhing on the table, pulling at the rope and trying to undo it with his teeth. Before Art departed the room, he needed to secure Paul better to the table so he couldn’t undo the rope with his teeth. Art went to sit on Paul’s belly, rope in hands. He first wrapped the rope around Paul’s upper leg and then used the same stretch of rope to tie Paul’s left ankle by catching it in a loop and pulling the rope tight bending the knee and tying ankle to the rope of his upper leg. Art proceeded to do t he same to Paul’s right leg, but this time Paul was kicking more aggressively desperately trying to win. All the struggling was to no avail since Art already had his upper body under control. Art stood up and grabbed the rope around Paul’s right leg and pulled it to the table leg Paul’s right wrist was tied to. He pulled it far enough to pull Paul’s hips off the table, wrapped it around the table leg and tied it so Paul remained in a rolled up position, ass sticking up in the air. Art did the same to Paul’s left leg and stood back to admire his handy work. Nice; very naked, exposed and vulnerable. It wasn’t the first time Art did this, but he had never done it to Paul. Strangely, doing it to Paul was weirdly satisfying, as if he was cutting Paul down to size by taking his control from him and abusing his trust in Art and exposing all his vulnerabilities, the ones Paul tried to hide so desperately. 

Art’s eyes went all over Paul’s body, watching muscles tense and move, checking the tightness of the rope and the white marks they left in Paul’s skin. It was all so delicious. Paul’s chest was still heaving, now with anticipation, lust and a little fear. Art could read the same things in his eyes, wide and jet black. He first had to collect some stuff before he could get back to work on Paul. Paul was horrified when Art left the room; his mind went crazy at the idea he was tied down like that and Art was up to something, but Paul couldn’t keep an eye on him. He listened to how Art climbed the stairs to the first floor. He could hear Art walking into his bedroom and he guessed Art went to get something from his wardrobe judging by where Paul could hear the footsteps. Then it was quiet for a little while, which made Paul even more nervous. Not that the footsteps walking out of the bedroom and down the stairs calmed Paul down at all. Art reappeared with a black bag in his hands which he placed right out of Paul’s view down by his legs. He could hear Art getting something out of the bag. He tried to lift his head to see what Art was doing, but Art was between his legs keeping his hands down low. 

Paul could hear squirting and moments later something cold was applied to his opening. Fingertips diligently massaged around the opening slipping in from time to time. Paul put his head down resting it on the wood beneath him while his legs rested hanging in Art’s created harnass. A finger smoothed his insides moving in and out of him relaxing and opening the ring muscle. After a little while a second and a third finger were added moving in smoothly and spreading opening him up further. Paul moaned quietly as Art pushed in deeper and searched for his most sensitive spot. 

A sharp light flashed before his eyes when Art hit the spot. His body suddenly tensed and twitched, his legs spasming in the ropes. A small devious smile formed around Art’s lips. Carefully he stroke the spot again and Paul pulled hard at the ropes as he gasped. Art moved into a comfortable position to make sure he would milk this situation to the fullest. He started to rub over the small spot applying some pressure causing Paul to cry out, his voice ringing out in drawnout moans and pleads. His body tensing and spasming, his hips desperately trying to thrust. Paul was rock hard now and the neglect of his erect penis in combination with the sensation inside was driving him mad. Art knew exactly how to play Paul. He rubbed Paul’s prostate till he nearly came, then paused letting the sensations subside and Paul to calm. He did this for a little while till Paul was begging him to finish it. As he rubbed Paul inside, he grabbed his hard on to rub him outside as well. After that Paul didn’t last very long and he came gasping and screaming, pulling at the ropes as his body thrusted and spasmed. Art watched in admiration and lust wanting some action as well. Right in the middle he stopped again causing Paul to whimper as he tried to catch his breath.

Art sat on his knees between Paul’s legs preparing himself, his eyes fixed on Paul’s face. Paul stared back, encouraging him to go ahead. Art grabbed Paul’s hips and lifted him up. Gingerly he guided his erection to Paul’s opening and slowly forced his way in. He never took his eyes off of Paul’s face. Paul’s mouth opened as Art stretched him open and reached deep inside him. Wiggling around Art soon found the spot again and now started rubbing it with his own erection. Making sure he got the most out of it as well, he teased Paul for quite a while with differing motions and speeds of his hips. Watching Paul’s eyes roll to the back of his head every time he rubbed over Paul’s prostate till he couldn’t control it any longer. He rocked Paul hard, pushed in as deep with as much force as he could. Feel Paul tremble and quiver around him, squeezing and rubbing him with his insides. He could feel Paul explode and go stiff and tense when he filled him up with hot cum. He revelled in the heat and tightness, trembling and spasming orgasm till Paul calmed. When he pulled out Paul looked completely spent, he didn’t even notice Art cutting him loose.

Art carefully cleaned Paul off and dragged him into his arms as he lay down on the sofa. Paul crawled into his embrace like a little child hiding against his mother’s bosom. Art hated the idea that Paul would lie in bed with his wife tonight. No, Art didn’t want to share him with anyone, he wanted Paul to be his, he needed Paul to be all his.

Paul’s head was still lulling from the ride he had just taken when Art said: “What are you going to do about Joanna?”

It was all over in split second, the whole romance, the excitement and lust in the air, it was all gone after that one sentence. Paul pushed himself up to look at Art. 

“There’s nothing I can do about Joanna.”

Art looked hurt.

“Doesn’t this mean anything to you then.”

“Art, I explained it to you; I can’t just abandon my family; their depending on me!”

Art pushed Paul off of him: “I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m crazy about you. I’m in love with you! I need you to be all in or all out. So what’s it going to be Paul!” 

Paul’s eyes seemed dead in the shimmering light. He pursed his lips and looked Art over.

“I suppose we’re done then,” he replied almost without hesitation.

Art’s world went dark and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. He couldn’t believe Paul choose to end it; he sort of figured, after what just happened and what Art just said, Paul would choose him. 

“I’m going to pack my things. I will also cancel the gig for tomorrow,” Paul said, and Art heard his voice as if he was miles away, or like in a dream.

Art couldn’t move when he heard Paul upstairs getting his stuff together. He was still sitting in the same spot when Paul quietly came down the stairs and left the house without checking back in the living room where Art still was, paralyzed with shock.

 

Art barely noticed time going by. Nor was he really alive anymore. He couldn’t think, everything happened automatically, as if someone else had taken control over his body. After Paul left, the light never seemed to come on anymore and the sun was shining at half capacity. Art went through the motions in a daze; getting up, having breakfast, going to school and doing classes, coming back home. In the evening he sat on the couch with the tv off staring into space. He lost him? From one moment to the other, he was suddenly gone, out of Art’s life. Of course not entirely out of his life, but Art tried his best to stay out of his way and it seemed Paul did the same. This way Art could almost pretend their romance never happened, except for the gaping hole in his heart.

Avoiding sitting alone in the dark on his couch, Art wandered the streets, evading people. He had no real plan but to walk. He wasn’t sure why, but he went to the club where he was supposed to have a gig. He could hear music coming from the club and he absentmindedly thought: “Oh, they found a replacement, good for them.” He was wandering on when a familiar melody reached his ears. First he thought he knew the song from the radio, but then he realized he recognized the song, because he had been practising it only a week ago; it was a Paul Simon tune. The color, if he had any at that moment, drained from his face. He walked into the club nearly knocking some people down; he didn’t notice the angry faces. Sure enough, when Art managed to push his way to the stage he could see a small man on the stage by himself. Paul hadn’t canceled the gig like he said he would; he was doing it without Art!


	9. Reconstruction is a lonesome art

Paul wasn’t sure what exactly happened a few weeks earlier. All he knew was that he was on his own again. Ever since they broke up, Art hid away in the exact sciences part of the building, he even didn’t come to the teachers’ canteen most of the time. Paul only saw him a handful of times and every time when Art noticed Paul in the room he very quickly disappeared again. Paul was worried about him; he looked pale and gaunt.

Paul wasn’t happy about his decision, but what choice did he have? He vowed to Joanna he would be there, he did no such thing to Art. What kind of man would he be if he didn’t honour his vows? He would be a cheating man....He was a cheating man and he needed to get his life back on track. Only then he could help Joanna get her life back on track as well. They owed it to their baby daughter. He was sorry for Art, he really was, but they couldn’t go on with this charade. Paul’s mind was made up.

***

Art was barely present, a ghost of a man, shadowing through his life. He had lost a bit of his sparkle lately; all his colleagues noticed. Some of them guessed what had taken the colour of his cheeks, only a few knew. Art wasn’t good at talking about his feelings, so he didn’t. He just quietly went on, focussing on his work, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side and the heavy weight on his chest. Even if he was a man to talk about his emotions, in this case, he couldn’t. It could put both him and Paul in great danger; still a lot of people were violently opposed to the idea of two men romantically involved. Even though Art didn’t agree with Paul’s way of going about their love affair, he agreed it couldn’t be in the open. He never expected Paul to openly show his feelings in public, but he had expected more devotion, less distractions, more passion and decisive actions. Paul had given only a measured amount of devotion and passion. He seemed mainly distracted by his family life and he hadn’t made any decisions in how to deal with that situation. Instead, he kept putting Art aside trying to save what was left of his marriage.

Art knew the school was buzzing with rumours. Some teachers and students had turned their backs on him, some even publicly cursed him. In his current situation the insults were hitting him even harder, but he didn’t have the energy or will to fight them. Instead he kept his head down and didn’t respond. If he kept quiet and out of trouble, it might go away over time.

 

Art wasn’t the only one who noticed the increased upheaval in the school about sexuality in its different forms. Paul noticed and seemed to put in extra effort to appear male and very straight. It hurt and annoyed Art. The Headmaster noticed as well and worried about the integrity and decency of his school. He took a head on approach to tackle the problem by calling an extra meeting to discuss the problem with his staff and how to deal with the ongoing and persistent rumours, and last but not least, remind them they were the students’ examples.

The Headmaster stood, hands clasped on his back, at the head of the table watching his personnel spilling into the room and finding a seat to sit. He noticed Simon sitting with the other English teachers, unusually boisterous, as if he had to prove something. He saw Garfunkel slinking in the back, on the other side of the room, stealing cautious glimpses of Simon. The Headmaster knew something was going on, and he didn’t like it. These two had been the source of a lot of unrest. Garfunkel had always been peculiar and stubborn and he had a tendency to cause trouble from time to time. Simon, when the Headmaster hired him, had a reputation of being stubborn and causing trouble. Since the trouble Simon used to cause were quite different to the ones Garfunkel usually caused, the Headmaster had not anticipated them causing trouble together. Them even getting along as well as they did actually caught the Headmaster off guard at first. Only recently it started worrying him and even more recently , since Garfunkel had taken some unannounced and unauthorized leave, it started to cause trouble. Now action needed to be taken before things went out of control.

The Headmaster cleared his throat while gently tapping his cup of coffee with a spoon. The room slowly went quiet and eyes were expectantly looking at him to open the meeting.

“Some of you may have noticed the school has been restless the last couple of months,” he started. 

Some teachers nodded, the two teachers this speech was mainly addressed to weren’t actually facing him. Garfunkel was staring at Simon, Simon was staring at his cup of coffee.

“I would like to remind all of you to leave your private affairs outside the school. In this school all the teachers are expected to behave in a professional way. You are expected to be an example to the students. So no affairs, not with students nor other teachers.”

The Headmaster studied the faces of his staff. Some of them were nodding again, others were just attentively listening. He noticed Garfunkel actually looking at him, but quickly averting his eyes when the Headmaster looked straight at him. Simon was still staring at his cup of coffee as if more interesting things were happening there. No facial expressions betrayed his emotions. Garfunkel on the other hand did seem to feel caught out.

“Now! We all have to work on getting the students attentions back to their studies and exams. Don’t give them any reason to discuss anything else. Be the right example!”

“Shouldn’t we discuss the real problem? Because it’s not going away by pretending it’s not there,” a voice interrupted the Headmaster.

“And what problem would that be?” the Master inquired.

The voice belonged to Art’s oldest and closest friend in the school, Sam. Art tried to make eye contact with Sam, but Sam was looking at the Headmaster. In the corner of his eye Art could see Paul’s horrified face staring up at Sam.

Sam wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip: “The problem of how we deal with different kind of sexual preferences. It shouldn’t be pushed away, we should discuss this.”

“And how would that solve our problems of the current unrest in the school?”

“If we can make the students see and understand what it means, you can take the misunderstanding away and open up the school for more possibilities.”

The Headmaster grinded his teeth; this was not how he planned this meeting to go: “Mister Delaware, this is a school of learning, not some hippie school for free love.”

Sam wasn’t going to give up so easily: “Sir, I don’t want to change this school into a ‘hippie school for free love’, I just want to create a better and open understanding of different ways of living your life. Aren’t we supposed to teach the students how to get on in life after school?”

“Mister Delaware, that’s quite enough. School rules have been set at the founding of this school and I see no reason to change those rules.”

“But sir...” “I said that’s enough, Mister Delaware!”

Sam finally gave up looking accusingly sideways at his friend. Art finally got his eye contact, his face telling Sam it was not the right time. Sam sighed, shook his head slightly trying to express his confusion at Art not taking the opportunity with him. Art turned his attention back to the Headmaster indicating he didn’t want to talk about it.

Art tried to escape the school unseen as quickly as possible after the improvised meeting. No such luck, it bothered Sam Art didn’t join him in his plea to start discussions to open up attitudes and make things better for all involved. Sam followed Art out running after him. If Art wanted, he could be very fast, slipping through the cracks and disappearing into crowds of only five people. Not many people were aware that was another of Art’s special talents.

Sam only just managed to stop Art exiting the school grounds: “Why didn’t you join me!?”

Art pulled a difficult pained face at Sam: “It’s not the time, Sam.”

“It is the time! This is it!”

“No...” Art was already turning away from Sam.

“Art! Of all people, you should understand.”

“Understand what, Sam? That the whole world is against me? That they don’t understand... No, that they don’t accept what I am and how I want to live my life?”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“This is not going to work, not now.”

“Why not now!?”

“Because even my own lover doesn’t believe in it. How is it ever going to work if the people involved don’t believe in it?”

Art started to unlock his car, but Sam did one last attempt.

“Forget about Paul. There are others who do believe...”

Art turned back to Sam suddenly aggressive: “Forget about Paul!?”

Sam stumbled: “I mean...”

Art shook his head, back to sad: “I can’t forget about Paul.” 

***

The Headmaster didn’t address him personally, nor did he name him as one of the culprits, but Paul knew it was aimed at him. He could ignore it, he was ignoring it, he didn’t feel like it was about him anymore. It couldn’t be about him, because Paul was a married man and he intended to honour his vows. He needed to focus on his marriage, there was no room for sexual discoveries; he should have done that in his teens.

Paul knew he could save his marriage, he only needed Joanna to see it too. Ellis couldn’t be a friend anymore, not since he and Joanna seemed to have gotten suspiciously close. Paul wouldn’t be surprised to find him once again in his living room cosying up to his wife.

Paul turned the key in the lock and pushed the front door open. He listened in first, could only hear something cooking on the stove. Cautiously he peeked into the living room, there was nobody there. To not to look too suspicious Paul proceeded with his old routine; coat off and on the coat rack, up the stairs to get rid of his bag and back down to say hello to his wife and daughter. He executed the routine as usual, but all the while keeping a close ear on any movement from below. He could hear someone downstairs, walking around in the kitchen, the sound of plates and cutlery, the sound of running water and pots and pans being moved.

Eventually he went downstairs, first peeking around the kitchen before kissing his wife hello. Joanna gave him a strange look.

“Oh, we’re back on earth, are we?” she sarcastically asked.

Paul pulled an annoyed face: “What are you talking about?”

“You stopped doing that a few months back,” Joanna explained. “I thought you reserved that for your mistress, or did she kick you out?”

Paul picked up his playing daughter and cuddled her to the baby’s delight. Joanna couldn’t help softening at the sight and smiled at the girl’s cackle. She eyed her husband up; something changed.

Paul mumbled: “I don’t have a mistress. I never had a mistress.”

In between play with his daughter he watched his wife: “And you?” he tried to coax something out of her.

Joanna turned to him, one hand on her hip: “And me what?”

“How did you spend your day? Had any company?”

“Yes, Ellis came by, you just missed him.”

“Well timed,” Paul huffed under his breath .

Joanna squinted her eyes: “What was that!?”

Now Paul looked straight up at her: “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” he accused.

“Yes! So?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”

Joanna’s mouth twitched in irritation: “To some, maybe, but I can spend my time with whoever I want. It doesn’t mean something immoral is happening.”

“Why don’t you spend that time with your girlfriends?”

“Why can’t I spend that time with Ellis? He’s a good friend and he was the only one who noticed what was happening here.”

“What was happening here!?”

Joanna couldn’t help raising her voice remembering the injustice being done to her: “You cheating on me with some floozy from the city!”

“I wasn’t cheating on you with some ‘floozy’ from the city!” Paul now also raised his voice.

“Surely, you weren’t spending all that time practicing with Art!?”

Paul fell silent for a bit; he better be careful now: “Nnyes...I was...with Art, all the time.”

Joanna knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t quite tell what.

Paul recovered: “Call him! Ask him! Ask anyone; they’ll all tell you I was with Art.”

Paul seemed so determined, Joanna suddenly wasn’t sure about her accusations. She turned to the food trying to figure out that nagging feeling. Something was wrong, but what?

 

They ate their dinner in silence, both eyeing the other one up, trying to detect some suspicious behaviour, trying to discover what was going on. Paul figured saving his marriage could become quite a struggle; he didn’t seem to be on the same page with Joanna any longer and they had trouble finding each other. Whatever needed doing, Paul was prepared to do it.

It had been while a while since Paul made advances to his wife. Not that they didn’t have any sex anymore; Paul let Joana seduce him, if only to cover up his cheating with Art. His heart hadn’t been in it and he simply went through the motions. Joanna seemed distracted as well, but Paul didn’t think about it twice. He did his duty.

This time he intended to focus his attention totally on Joanna, like he used to when they were still dating. Paul told himself women still excited him, that Joanna still excited him, he loved his wife. Something had changed, they were both suspicious of each other, their actions didn’t flow naturally but came out of habit instead of passion. As Paul readied himself to penetrate her he couldn’t help but notice how strange the situation seemed. His final proceedings also felt mechanic and they couldn’t seem to find the flow and organic rhythm. He definitely had better sex. He closed his eyes and searched for an image that excited him. He found soft blond curls, a strong hold on his arms and an embrace tighter and more passionate. It did the trick and Paul soon emptied himself and collapsed next to his wife. He even kissed her before rolling onto his side and falling asleep.

***

The Headmaster’s speech to the teachers initiated a flurry of reactions and actions. Some teachers became more strict in maintaining decency around the school pulling students in romantic encounters apart. Others started discussions with their students about what was accepted and what was not accepted. And there was a third group wanting to take matters in their own hands to rid this school of all perversions. It was the latter group that seemed to catch the most attention. Instead of calming rumours down, the discussions became more heated and the attitudes more aggressive. Some students and even teachers came out with threats, singling students, and sometimes even teachers out.

Art saw this happening. He wasn’t exactly an activist, he was just one person with a very strong opinion and ideas. He didn’t like what the school was becoming, nor the two opposing movements gaining ground and seemingly wanting to fight. Art didn’t want to fight, he just wanted to love whoever without having to explain himself. Actually, right now, he just wanted to forget all about love altogether, because it hurt too much. But time did what it always did and dragged the people along with it. Art wasn’t immune to it; he received some threats as well and Sam advised him not to stay late in school, but go home early every afternoon to avoid trouble. Art was willing enough to do that, anything to get him as far from Paul as possible.

He couldn’t avoid school altogether; he still had classes to teach. Besides that, he promised the Headmaster to be at his best behaviour. He knew that speech was for a great part addressed at him. He knew if he put one foot wrong, he was out. So he felt no desire to take part in any of the movements, discussions and protests. He just came to school to teach.

Art put the students to work trying to solve a mathematical problem. He sat behind his desk watching over his class, measuring the level of knowledge and skill among his students. It was also a way of taking the students minds off of the discussions and the tumult. It took his mind firmly off of Paul and prepared his students for the upcoming exams. It was strange, since he wasn’t on a stage singing anymore, he didn’t seem to feel much like talking in public either. These days he taught by practice, let the students try and figure it out for themselves. He couldn’t get away from explaining nor from discussing solutions to problems. In these cases he tended to dive deep into the problem, forgetting everything else happening in the world. It was a way of dealing with life’s problems.

But life had a tendency of catching up with man, and no matter how deep Art pushed his head into the metaphorical sand, even he had to face the music from time to time...and so did his ex-partner Paul.

After class Art wandered into the teachers room to get himself a coffee before retreating into his office. Since it was lunch break, most teachers were present eating their lunch. The usual groups seemed to have broken up and new groups formed. Art was very aware of being watched when he poured himself a cup of coffee. When he was on his way out, coffee in hand, one of the teachers out of one of the more traditional minded groups, stood up to confront Art.

Art stopped since his path got blocked. 

“All right, Lester?” he carefully asked.

“We know what you are,” Lester threatingly said.

Art didn’t want any trouble so he looked around for a way out and saw Paul sitting on his own. He wasn’t facing them, but Art knew Paul was listening. He also knew Paul got abandoned by the other English teachers who were now in Lester’s lunch group.

“Well?” Lester forced the case as he shoved Art.

Some hot coffee spilled over Art’s hand and he was very tempted to throw it in Lester’s face. He kept calm instead.

“Lester, I don’t want any trouble, so could you just let me pass?”

Lester responded: “We don’t want any trouble either. So you either take your dirty business somewhere else, or you learn how to behave. If you don’t, we will teach you.”

The room had grown very silent. Paul shrunk in his seat as if he hoped he would become so small he wouldn’t be visible. His hands were gripping his cutlery so tightly, his knuckles were turning white. Art, still not in the mood for confrontation, tried to push past Lester.

Lester stopped him: “You and that Bob Dylan wannabe. Bob Dylan at least writes quality songs, not that dribble you two shriek.”

Art’s demeanour changed- hard, unimpressed expression on his face, his eyes a sharp blue piercing stare straight into Lester’s eyes.

In a menacing voice Art returned the threat: “If you dare to make any more insulting observations about our music, I will teach you a thing or two,” emphasizing the ‘I’ and ‘you’.

Stunned by Art’s sudden aggressive change of attitude, Lester let him pass and exit the teachers room.

Paul let a breath escape he didn’t realize he was holding. He had to grab his chance and get the hell out of there before they recovered and turned on him. Even though the ‘Bob Dylan’ remark hurt, the sensible part, the part of him who wanted to stay out of trouble, kept him quiet. As quickly and silently as he could, he packed up his stuff and left. When he was outside Art had already disappeared. Paul was somewhat relieved; he didn’t feel like facing him, even though he wanted to thank him for defending their, his music.

 

The incident divided the two camps even further. Not just the teachers, but also students. Art knew he was right in the middle of it, but he was more worried about Paul, because he seemed to be deep in denial. Of course Paul knew how people thought about same sex relations, but Paul didn’t feel it was really aimed at him; he wasn’t gay, he was married with a child. He kept reminding everybody, but public beliefs could be persistent. He even went as far as saying that same sex relations were unnatural, anything to get himself out of this mess. People weren’t convinced, they made up their minds.

It was a Thursday evening and the last teachers were leaving the school to go home, Paul was one of them. He said his goodbyes to some of the teachers and walked alone to his car parked at the far end of the parking lot. Paul always enjoyed the last walk in the fresh air before surrendering himself to the school atmosphere and there always seemed to be more places available than closer to the school.

“Sir!” a familiar young man’s voice called out for him.

Paul looked up to recognize one of his students: “Jenkins. How can I help you?”

“Sir, the homework you gave us for tomorrow,” the boy pulled out his English grammar book. 

“I don’t understand this question,” the boy said holding up the book just a little too far away for Paul to be able to read the question.

Just as Paul bent over the book to read the question a hard knock between his shoulder blades pushed him to the ground. He could feel a fist slamming into his jaw pushing his face into the dirt, then a foot kicking against his ribs knocking the air out of his lungs. Disorientated he tried to stop the blows and kicks first. When that didn’t work he tried to roll over and crawl away, but the fists and feet kept hitting him hard in his face, his ribs and his back till everything finally faded to black.

Art was one of the last ones out and he was pausing to light a cigarette for the walk to his car when he heard the commotion. When he looked up he saw youngsters running away and teachers rushing to the far end of the parking lot. Art dropped his cigarette and started walking towards the hassle, at first not wanting any of it, but at the same time afraid of what he was going to find there. He sped up his pace when the first teachers came running back to the school and started running when he noticed one of the teachers had blood on his hands. His worst fears became true when he arrived at the scene of the crime. Two teachers were kneeling down next to a bloody body, and Art pushed someone away to get closer. He recognized the coat, dirty and ripped in places. He pushed the man kneeling next to the body away and took his place.

“No no no, oh Gawd! Paul! Paul!” 

Desperately he tried to lift the dirty, bloody face off the ground. Without thinking, he took his own coat off and rolled it up to serve as a pillow and carefully placed it under the victim’s head.

“Paul, can you hear me!?”

With some paper tissues he tried to clean the blood off the face, his other hand trembling while stroking Paul’s hair.

“Paul, hold on, we’re going to get you to the hospital. Call an ambulance! Please help us!”

Someone tried to drag Art away: “Art, you need to leave now.”

“No!” he hissed, not even seeing it was Sam.

Crying, he cradled Paul in his arms. If anyone tried to hurt Paul more they had to go through him; he was not leaving his side.

 

Art sat in the hospital, still not comprehending what happened. How could it have escalated so quickly? Art should have taken an active role; he should have done more to protect Paul. After all, he was also the one who got Paul into this mess. If it hadn’t been for Art, Paul would have been safely married with a child and no-one would have even looked at him in these tricky times.

The medical staff had to call security to drag Art away when they brought Paul into the hospital. He was told to sit quietly and wait till a doctor came to him. It had been over an hour and nobody came to tell him how Paul was doing. Art did see Joanna arriving, together with Ellis. He didn’t think they saw him. The nurses were keeping Art well away, because he wasn’t family.  
Art watched doctors and nurses walking by the waiting room he was in. Nobody looked in, nobody checked if he was still there. It seemed they had forgotten completely about him. Art got up to have a look down the hallway. He noticed a desk with a nurse stationed behind it, so he walked up; maybe she knew something or could find out for him if there was any news.

The nurse was busy with files. Art was sure she heard him, but was ignoring him. Why did it seem like the whole world was against him? Art cleared his throat and the nurse looked up at him, studied his face, then smiled and said: “Just one moment please,” before turning back to her papers.

The circumstances made Art rather anxious to find out what was going on and he impatiently tapped his fingers on the desk, which seemed to annoy the nurse, but not speed her up. In the end Art was out of patience.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but a friend of mine has been taken in and I like to know how he’s doing.”

The nurse sighed, paused looking like she was deciding how to deal with Art, then she put the file on a pile of other files, gave Art her best fake smile and inquired: “What’s your friend’s name?”

Finally.

“Simon. Paul Simon. He got beaten up.”

The nurse’s face turned serious and she picked up a phone: “Hello emergency? Yes, I have a Mister....” she looked back up at Art.

“Garfunkel,” Art provided the information.

“I have a Mister Garfunkel here who likes to know how Mister...uh...” she looked up at Art again.

Art was getting very irritated with this woman and he couldn’t hide this irritation when he repeated Paul’s name to her. The nurse seemed equally unimpressed with Art. After what seemed like a phone call of 30 minutes in which not only the nurse acquired the information Art was looking for, but also private conversation seemed to have happened, she finally hung up the phone and turned back to Art.

“The doctors are just finishing with him.”

“How is he? Is he going to be fine?”

“I don’t know, you’re going to need to ask the doctors.”

Art nearly grabbed the nurse and pulled her over her desk. Instead he asked: “Where can I find the doctors?”

“Your friend is in Intensive care, ask there.”

Art made his way to Intensive care, but was very quickly stopped.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there.”

“I’m looking for my friend. Paul Simon? He’s been brought in today. I just want to know if he’s going to be okay.”

This doctor was friendlier and more understanding than the nurse.

“Your friend is in good hands. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but at this moment we don’t know. It depends on how he will do the next few days. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. We will keep you informed.”

“How?”

“You’re a colleague, aren’t you? We’re keeping the Headmaster informed and the Headmaster keeps his staff informed. Sir, you really have to leave now.”

Art understood at this moment he could only wait, so he turned and left.

There was no way for Art to get close to Paul, he was stopped at every corner and turned away. He hung around in the hospital till dawn, then went straight back to school. He could at least try and find out who did this to Paul.  
There was a strange atmosphere at the school. Classes were going ahead, not to teach, but to explain what happened and what was expected of students and teachers alike. There seemed to be policemen everywhere. Art was told all his classes were suspended till further notice and the police wanted to talk to him; he had to stay at school for now.

Art sat in his office, not able to do anything useful, his mind kept wandering back to the hospital were Paul lay fighting for his life. Around lunchtime two police officers came to his office. They asked about Art’s relationship with Paul. Art first downplayed it, saying they were colleagues and became friends. Then the officers referenced the rumours. Art took his time reacting to it. Should he lie, or tell the truth? It could hurt both his own and Paul’s situations. When one of the officers forced the subject Art decided to admit a bit of the truth: Yes, he was in love with Paul. What of it? Did they consume the relationship? What did that have to do with what happened? Art knew what it had to do with what happened, but it was still a private matter and that truth wouldn’t find the attackers. 

The conversation continued into an even more disturbing direction. The officers told him people noticed they weren’t talking anymore. Had something happened? Did they fight? Was it possible Art wanted revenge? At this point Art was losing his patience with the officers and was deeply insulted by the suggestions. He told the officers in strong language he would never hurt Paul, but if the attackers somehow presented themselves to him, he would make them pay. With that last remark the conversation ended. Before they left Art’s office they told him not to stray too far.

Art was left in his office, his hands squeezed into fists. Maybe it was his exhaustion, maybe the anger about what happened, but at some point Art left his office in a blind fury, marched to Lester’s office and burst in. Lester was in, sitting behind his desk grading essays. He looked up in surprise, didn’t get the chance to do or say anything. Art grabbed him by the collar and pulled him over his desk.

“Did you set them up to do it!?”

“Do what? Beat that little bastard up!? I did no such thing.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying, though that little bastard needed cutting down to size.”

“Are you trying to be funny!? I’m really not in the mood!”

At this point Lester put his hands against Art’s chest and pushed him away. Art stumbled backwards, but charged forward the moment he regained his balance. Lester caught him and threw him aside to the floor.

“I told my students the truth about you scumbags. I told them what they needed to know, to prevent you dragging them and this society down. I did not tell them to beat up that little rat."

By that point other teachers had emerged attracted by the noise they made. Just as Art was to attack Lester’s leg someone grabbed him and pulled him out of the office. Minutes later he was sitting in the Headmaster’s office, a grim and angry looking Headmaster looking down at him.

“I can no longer tolerate your behaviour,” he told Art.

Art knew where this was going: “Sir, Lester’s been...”

The Headmaster interrupted him: “Enough, Garfunkel. You and Simon started this unrest in the first place and it has to end. I see no other option, especially since you keep abusing your promises to clean up your act. Besides that, your behaviour seems to worsen involving other staff members, even attacking them. You’re fired.”

Art tried again: “Sir..”

But the Headmaster cut him off immediately: “You’re fired, Garfunkel. Go get your stuff and leave!”

***

It was strange, he didn’t really notice; he had been feeling so nervous and scared for Paul, he only cried the first few seconds after finding Paul lying in a puddle of blood. After that his mind had been constantly racing: Would he make it? Who did this to him? What should he do? What could he do? Going around in circles, the emotions building up, he couldn’t hold it together any longer and he cried for hours.

After the Headmaster fired him Art went straight back to the hospital and once again tried to get to Paul. He ran into Joanna who was only just trying to cope with the persistent rumours about her husband and Art. She confronted him, asked him if it was true. Art was in no mood to lie, so he admitted Paul and him got intimate. He could tell that up to that moment Joanna never believed it. The colour drained from her cheeks and a myriad of emotions played across her face, from confused to surprised and from sad to angry. Art knew immediately that was a mistake, because Joanna acted quickly and had Art banned from the hospital. He was thrown out by two security men and told not to try and creep back in, because they would have him arrested.

Now Art was back home in his little apartment. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go. The last two days played through his head over and over again, from seeing Paul lying bloody on the ground to being kicked out of the hospital. What a mess. How could things have gone wrong so badly? Why didn’t he take the right precautions? Why did he lose control? He sat in the middle of his living room. All the rooms reminded him of Paul; the desk where Paul would sit to write a song, the chair where he sat to play his guitar and sing with Art. The small guest room Art lay him to sleep the first time he took him home and the bedroom where they made love to each other many times. Only that small space in the middle of his living room didn’t hold any memories of Paul. It didn’t help, it didn’t relieve the burden off of Art’s shoulder, or the knot in his throat. The room was confining and made it hard to breathe. 

Around midnight Art found himself on a bus travelling to the hospital again. He walked into the hospital without being stopped straight to Intensive care, straight to Paul’s room. There was no-one to stop him, maybe he was just lucky this time. When he walked into the front room he did see Joanna sleeping in an hospital bed, but she didn’t stir so he moved on straight to the glass partition behind which Paul lay. It was the first time Art saw Paul since that fateful evening. His face was swollen and black and blue; Art didn’t even recognize him. There was a tube in his mouth and a machine pumping air into his lungs. Tears started to force their way out again. Art wanted to talk to him, tell him it was going to be all right, touch him, hold him, till he was all better and safe within Art’s care. Art was about to open the door into Paul’s room when a body pushed between him and the door.

“What are you doing here!?!?” It was a very angry Joanna.

Art stammered: “I...I...I just want...”

Joanna’s voice was a low menacing hiss: “Leave my husband alone, you dirty...”

“Please, Joanna. I just want to...”

She raised her voice: “Get OUT!!!”

Within a few seconds two men appeared, a doctor and what looked like security. Art was swiftly escorted from the room, taken to the police station and put in a cell. Really a perfect end to a perfect day, Art sarcastically concluded. Sitting in that cell he finally noticed how exhausted he was and he soon fell into a restless sleep.


End file.
